


Playing With Your Food

by Cantique



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Biting, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blowjobs, Choking, Cunnalingus, Dirty Talk, Elf Sex, F/M, Fuckdrunk, Horns, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Prehensile Tail, Rope Bondage, Smut, Tail Sex, Tails, Unrequited Crush, Vampire Sex, rope play, sub space
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27119041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cantique/pseuds/Cantique
Summary: “By all means, though,” he continues, “if you really wish it, I’ll go back to my watch and leave you be. ...But if it’s all the same to you,” he pauses, leaning in, his lips beside your ear. You can feel his breath against you as he whispers. “I have a mind to take you on every possible surface in this room."--You fuck Astarion again. That's it. That's the fic.Also, you're a Tiefling. And there's more than one chapter now. And I'm a huge fuckin' pervert, apparently.Please see tags for CNs, they're _important._CN: There's blood, but in the fun, vampire sex way.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Reader, Astarion/Female Charname (Baldur's Gate)
Comments: 94
Kudos: 833





	1. Horns.

**Author's Note:**

> plz larian studios just a crumb of more content i am begging you, i am so horny for this man you apparently made in a factory for me and i will never know restful sleep again
> 
> sorry if there's any glaring grammatical errors, i was baked as shit when i started writing this. i sit here in my truth.

The house is empty. Abandoned. As though the people who lived here just up and left in the middle of what they were doing. 

You glance outside, the carcass of one of the Goblins you’ve just slayed outside visible from the open doorway. You hope the people who lived here got away. Despite scattering the Goblins several nights ago, the destruction of the hive couldn’t undo the damage already caused. 

Shadowheart carefully pushes open a door, weapon readied, while Wyll lights a candle on the wall. You notice a book on the living room’s table -- still open to the page its owner was reading. Everything seems clean, no blood to be found, and Shadowheart hasn’t found any bodies yet. Maybe they made it. It’s a good sign, anyway.

“Empty,” Shadowheart finally declares, her tone firm, but the drop of her shoulders betraying a level of relief. “What now?”

“We could stay here for the evening,” Astarion suggests. Your stomach lurches a little. Right. He’s here. Behind you, leaning casually against a wall and seeming barely interested in this whole thing (as usual.) “The weather outside is  _ atrocious _ , and while I hate to sound delicate, I  _ do _ miss  _ not  _ spending my nights exposed to the elements.”

You shake your head, acting as though you’re reading the pages of the open book, pretending you haven’t been trying so desperately to keep  _ that _ night off your mind that you, apparently, forgot Astarion was even here. “We can’t just stay in someone else’s house,” you argue.

“Why not?” He asks. “They clearly aren’t using it.”

“What if they come back?” You ask. 

“We apologise and move along,” Wyll interjects. “We’re hours away from camp and I’ve got doubts that hailstorm outside is going to let up any time soon,” he explains, pointing towards the open door. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to agree with…” he pauses. “ _ Your _ friend.”

You look to Shadowheart, who, satisfied that you won’t have any surprise guests, shrugs. “It would be nice to sleep in a real bed.”

“How many are there?” Wyll asks. “Reckon’ I’m well overdue a proper sleep.”   


“Three.” She looks at each of you, one by one. “One in each room.”

Shrugging, Wyll wanders over to one of the benches, taking a bottle of wine and holding it up to the light. “Three bedrooms? Wine?” He smiles to himself, apparently satisfied with what he can see through the glass. “Fancy. Shame there’s four of us.”

“I’ll stay up,” you announce, pretending to turn your attention back to the book. Truth be told -- you haven’t actually read a word of it. But you can feel Astarion’s eyes on you, and you’re trying to act like you haven’t noticed.

The events of the night of the party… well, the conversation that needs to be had is one that needs to wait. Tadpoles? First. Awkward discussion about the circumstances surrounding the sex you had with a vampire you’ve known for less than a week? Secondary.

“Nonsense.” Somehow, deep down, you knew that someone would volunteer in your place. Without wanting to seem self-assured, sometimes it feels like the only thing holding this group together is the way  _ you  _ try to keep everyone happy -- something that comes with its benefits. You stop Lae’zel killing everyone who so much as  _ sneezes _ around her, and there’s a sense of gratitude towards you for this, even if no one will openly admit it. Even so, Astarion volunteering? Surprising. Usually it’s Wyll diving head first into displays of chivalry like this. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t  _ sleep, _ ” he begins, making his way to the table. You watch as he pulls the seat out from the table, sitting down, claiming his territory as the watcher. “And I do so love to read in peace,” he continues, tapping his fingers along the edge of the open book you’re pretending to read. “Especially  _ this _ kind of…  _ literature.” _

It’s then and only then that your eyes finally settle on the words in front of you and you realise what you’re reading. It’s smut. 

Shit.

* * *

Red-faced, you make your way to your room following a dinner of bread, cheese, and the other foods you’d all managed to pick up along the way. Thankfully, Wyll did most of the talking tonight (just like every other night,) saving you from--

“I know you’re awake.”

That.

You open your eyes, the figure of Astarion standing in the doorway, stepping through and closing it behind him with care. “What?” You ask, sitting up in the bed, again trying to play this off that you’re concerned about something non-sex related, like Goblins, or the Tadpoles, or literally anything else.

“Are we going to discuss it?” He asks. There’s a pause, and you watch his eyes as they study your face from the doorway. “You’re not a bad little actress, by the way. I think our Cleric friend is none-the-wiser. Captain fistycuffs, however…”

“I don’t know what you’re--”

“Come, now,” he exhales. “The sexual tension between us is so thick you could cut through it with a knife. It’s near debaucherous,” Astarion declares with a smirk. “I’m quite the fan.”

You can feel yourself tensing. God, he is so hot, but this is absolutely not the time. “I just don’t want anything to get in the way of getting these things out of us,” you explain. 

“Get in the way?” He repeats. “I didn’t notice it doing that. Did you?”

“Well, no, but I--”

He crosses his arms. “Then I see no issue.”

You’ve already opened your mouth to insist that you’re really just worried about staying focused, but something snaps into your mind so suddenly and with such clarity that you wonder, for a second, if it’s Astarion’s thoughts and not your own, transmitted through the tadpole. “It wasn’t a one-time thing?” You ask.

He laughs a little, the smirk much more apparent than before. “Of course not. My palate is far too refined to ignore someone like  _ you, _ and I’m getting the feeling you may be of the same opinion.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I think you’ll find, my dear, that I do.” He grins, his fangs visible, confident in himself. “Although, if I’m wrong, you’re welcome to show me out and we’ll continue on like there’s not a constant, reverberating aura of lust between us.” There’s a pause. “I’m sure the Warlock would be thrilled.”

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow, sitting up a little more. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing” he dismisses, making a show of looking around the room as if there’s nothing to be said -- which means there absolutely is. “Just that he’s gone quite sour on me ever since--”

“Are you sure that isn’t just  _ you? _ ” You cut in.

This, somehow, catches him a little off guard, causing him to cut himself off and laugh a little. “No,” he chuckles, seeming genuinely tickled by your quip. “A fair assumption to make, but he’s been unable to stop grumbling over it ever since he heard  _ someone _ moan my name a little too loudly.”

“Did he say something?” You ask, mortified that someone heard you at all, let alone someone this close. 

Astarion’s eyes lock with yours, his smirk returning. “He didn’t need to.”

He doesn’t need to explain what he means by this. The implication is clear, and it absolutely does  _ not _ sit right with you. “You went into his mind?”

Astarion shrugs. “I may have had a peek. A rummage. Surface things, nothing too important or well guarded. I don’t even think he noticed--”

“So he didn’t know?” You follow up. It’s your turn to cross your arms now. “We all agreed, Astarion.”

His shoulders drop. “Come, now, you’ve never…?” 

“You should go.”

“Are you sure?” He asks.

“I just said--”

“Because I get the feeling this isn’t the deal-breaker you think it is.”

You don’t respond verbally at first, climbing out of bed and stepping towards him and the door. “Goodnight,” you say, gesturing to the doorway. 

“If you’re sure,” he relents. But he doesn’t move. “But I think you’re secretly thankful.”

“Excuse me?”

“If I might be so bold,” he begins, smirking once more, his fangs catching your eye again, “I think that’s part of what you like about me. I’m outrageously handsome, of course, and much more fun than our other compatriots… but what I think you find most exciting about me,” he says, closing the space between you, something you only realise when you feel his hand come to rest on your hip, “is that I’m willing to do the things you’re afraid to.”

“What do you--”

“Do you honestly mean to tell me that you haven’t, even once, considered doing a little digging of your own?” He asks you, his free hand pushing some hair behind your ear as the one on your hip moves to the small of your back. “You haven’t wanted to know what the others thought of you? You haven’t wanted to know who trusts who, who’s more likely to turn their backs on you when this is over? Who  _ wants _ you?” The hand that brushed the hair back comes to your jaw, guiding your face besides his as his arm pulls your body against him. “You have an inexplicable drive to please others, and I have a knack for getting  _ them  _ to please  _ me. _ We’re two parts of a delectable whole, you and I.”

He runs a thumb over your lip, and just like the first time, all you can do is exhale and soften yourself into his touch. He’s right. There’s something about him, for all his more questionable ethical ideas, that just ‘fits’ with your own personality like you were made to complement each other. But why did he have to be hot, too? Maker, he’s  _ so _ hot. It’s unfair how hot he is. It’s like someone designed him specifically for you and your tastes. 

“By all means, though,” he continues, “if you really wish it, I’ll go back to my watch and leave you be. ...But if it’s all the same to you,” he pauses, leaning in, his lips beside your ear. You can feel his breath against you as he whispers. “I have a mind to take you on every possible surface in this room.”

You search your mind for the right thing to say. On one hand, you should, probably, kick him out. You’d all agreed to not go poking around in each others brains, and although the information he’s dug up is mostly harmless, you don’t want to think about Wyll overhearing you getting railed to Baldur’s Gate and back by someone who’d had a knife to your throat not even a full week prior. On the other? His voice, his touch, the proximity of his fangs to your neck… it has your legs weak, your stomach tensing, full of fire as your heart races -- and you absolutely know that he can tell how fast your heart is beating.

“That’s what I thought,” he quietly laughs before taking your lips with his, leaving you thankful that he’s spared you from speaking words you just couldn’t find. 

As he kisses you, he guides you aside until you feel your ass bump against the edge of the dresser by the door. The impact is light, but it’s enough to bring you back to reality for a second. “What about the others?” You ask him, putting a palm to his chest.

“Why?” Astarion grins widely, squeezing at your hip. “Do you want them to join us?”

“No,” you can’t help yourself, relenting a little, “but if it’s upset Wyll--”

“Do you really care?” He asks.

He has a point. Honestly, embarrassment aside, you don’t. But Astarion has a knack for getting under Wyll’s skin specifically, and if what he’s said is true… “I need you two to get along until we can--”

He leans in again, his voice surpassing a whisper and turning into something more akin to a growl. “I  _ want _ him to hear.” 

You have no idea what part of your brain this appeals to, but whatever it is, it does  _ something _ for you and you find your face flushing as he undoes your belt, kisses moving from your lips to your jaw. Something falls off the top of the dresser as you knock against it again, but you’re too busy fumbling with the ties of his doublet to look back and see what it is. 

You’re glad you took your boots off beforehand to keep the bed clean. It makes getting undressed easier, which is a relief because at the rate Astarion is going, he may have just ripped your clothes off if there’d been any further hold-ups. As soon as his fingers graze your smallclothes, though, he suddenly moves his hands back to your hips and turns you, flipping your back to him, the front of your hips slamming into the dresser. Zero to a hundred -- and you love it. There’s a brief pause, one hand leaving you to presumably fidget with his own clothes, and then you feel him against you, hard and ready to go. He doesn’t waste any time. He never has with you.

“You know what I love about Tieflings?” He begins, his left hand trailing down your spine, his right guiding your right leg upwards a little, prompting you to lift it and kneel it atop the dresser. His fingers then come to your smallclothes, not pulling them down, but pulling the back of the crotch aside. You gasp a little, keeping the others and their close proximity to your room in mind, but it’s lost when he reaches up and takes one of your horns in his hand, pulling back and forcing you to arch your back along with it, dragging a yelp of surprise out of you as he takes the opportunity to slip his fingers inside you. “Absolutely delicious,” he remarks, withdrawing them after a moment, replacing them with his cock against your entrance, “soaked from  _ talking -- _ you’re downright obscene. Whatever am I going to do with you?”

“Fuck me?” You suggest, desperately aware that he only needs to move ever so slightly to be inside you, the grip on your horns rendering you immobile in what you can only describe as an act of cruelty. 

He chuckles to himself, a low one that comes from his chest. “And here I thought I might get you to beg.” He pushes into you, the position you’re in causing your body to squeeze around him all the more, and despite your best efforts, the sound that comes out of you is less than discreet. The chill of his skin makes it feel different to any other man you’ve ever been with, the sensation so vivid as he enters you that you can almost see it in your mind’s eye. “Gods,” he mutters under his breath, “so wet for me. You have no--” he pauses, his hips beginning the age-old rhythm against you, continuing from behind gritted teeth, “-- _ concept _ of how good you feel.” His free hand digs into the flesh of your hip, and you bite down on your lip to try and muffle another moan. 

It’s slow at first, each slow, deep thrust feeling almost electric inside you, leaving you desperate for more so much that it almost feels like an ache -- and you absolutely know he’s doing this on purpose. He’s always seemed like someone who likes to play with his food… metaphorically, of course. Although, honestly, the danger of it all definitely gets you off. All he really has to do is pull your head back a little further, and with your neck exposed like this he could just…

Apparently, though, even Astarion is feeling the same way, impatient, wanting all of you at once. He inhales sharply, releasing your horns, the suddenness of it causing you to lurch forward and slam against the top of the dresser with your forearms. It’ll hurt tomorrow, but you couldn’t care less right now, as long as he fucks you the way you need him to. “Please,” you whine, your upper body leaning down against the top of the dresser, your nails pressing against the varnishes wood as though you could grip onto it this way. “ _ Fuuuck.” _

“You know,” both his hands are gripping your hips now, his pace picking up, his voice breathless, “I really…” he loses himself for a minute, groaning a little in the back of his throat. “I really wanted to make an event of this, take my time, really--” he cuts himself off, taking a breath as you moan into the crook of your arm, “really  _ enjoy _ you. But you’re so… so…”

“Delicious?” You all but choke. 

The rumble from the back of his throat in response makes your core tense. It sounds heavenly, even. “Careful,” he warns, his voice low, his grip on you softening a little. There’s danger in the air, and something is stirring in you, like you can  _ feel _ his hunger, the temptation at the thought… you wonder if the tadpole has something to do with this, if this is really a shared feeling and not just your own sense of empathy, but it’s of little matter to you.

You push yourself up, using one arm to hold yourself upright, the other to brush your hair off the side of your neck. “Do it,” you say, twisting a little at the waist to catch a glimpse of his eyes as they widen, offering him a tender smile. “I want you to.”

His pace slows, but it doesn’t come to a stop. “Are you  _ sure? _ ” He asks.

“What?” You ask, taking your turn to smirk at him. “Too risque?”

His surprise turns into a grin, and without another word he reaches forward with one hand, pulling back on your throat and leaning in to meet you. He takes his time, the thrusts painfully slow as he kisses along your neck, his lips looking for the right spot. And then it happens, his teeth sinking into your neck, cold as ice. You cry out, almost pleading for something you can’t describe, the sensation tangling with the intensity of you taking the full length of him, your core tightening before the numbness in your neck takes over and you melt into his hold.

Your nerves can’t keep up, and you’ve abandoned any attempt to stay quiet. You can feel his arms shaking, his body tensing against you, and know he doesn’t have long left -- and when the hand on your hip moves, pushing between you and the edge of the dresser to circle your clit in rhythm with his thrusts? You know you don’t have long left, either.

“Say my name,” he whispers, his voice shaking, half murmured against your neck, a strange glimpse at vulnerability from him you’re sure you’ll never see anywhere else. 

“Astarion,” it leaves your throat in a half-choke, your breath caught in your chest, trying to gather for what’s building. 

“Louder.”

He bites down again, and the sting once again tangles with the pleasure rocking through your core and --- “Astarion!” His name tumbles out of you, louder than you intended, half a scream as you come, your legs shaking, your fingers turning white at the knuckles as they squeeze against the dresser surface. He groans, and you feel his teeth pressing deeper, his thrusts becoming erratic jerks as he follows you over the edge. 

You lean back down against the dresser, catching your breath, prompting Astarion to release you from his bite. Your legs feel like jelly, your back a little sore from the stretch. You can feel him loom over you, bracing himself with his arms either side of your body, not sounding nearly as exhausted as you are. You wonder how that works given that he did most of the work. Maybe it’s the blood.

A drop drips from the crook of your neck and onto the dresser, the sound surprisingly loud. “Sorry about that,” he says on the tale-end of a sigh. “I may have over-indulged.”

“I--” you pause, your breath catching as he pulls himself out of you. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”   
  
“Really?” He asks. “Are you sure about that?”

“I mean, I feel a little light headed.” You twist at the waist to grin at him. “Nothing a lay-down can’t fix.” He gives a decisive exhale, reaching out and wiping the blood from the dresser surface before quickly popping it into his mouth, as though he’s tasting jam. 

“Good,” he replies, a smugness to the smile on his face that’s so uniquely  _ him. _ “I was serious when I said  _ every _ surface.”


	2. Throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the comments, you're all enablers  
> who doesn't love the idea of your other party members pining over you a little hey??????????? yeeeah i know u do, i got u homie ;)

He has you in stitches, laughing along, enthralled in his tale of being stuck in an attic with one too many Kobolds -- but despite the way Wyll is in the foreground of your mind, you can’t shake the feeling of something lingering on you. A presence, familiar in how it feels on your back, eyes locked onto you from afar, ears listening to your every word. Astarion is watching you. 

You worry that Wyll can feel it as well, that the physical sensation is something that’s shared by the tadpole. If that’s the case, though, Wyll is doing an excellent job at hiding it, pulling your attention back every time it drifts with the feeling of Astarion’s gaze.

“Right, so there’s at least fifteen of ‘em up there, and I’m no idiot,” Wyll recalls, elbows leaning on the table as you drink back another mouthful of wine, trying to put Astarion’s attention to the back of your mind. “So I look at the window, take my chances, and throw myself out of it.” His delivery is so matter-of-fact that you snort a little on your wine, your upper-body lurching as you throw a hand over your mouth to stop any escaping. The feeling of Astarion’s eyes on you suddenly feel hot, sharp, like a pinprick. You ground yourself -- things between him and Wyll are tense, and if Wyll hasn’t picked up on anything, you’d prefer to keep it that way.

“Were you alright?” You ask, smiling, thoroughly amused at the thought of it. Wyll tossing himself from a second story window doesn’t exactly surprise you -- if anyone in the group is going to do it, it’s absolutely going to be Wyll -- but there’s a charming way to how he tells the story so casually, an almost boy-like pride to his exploits, like he’s trying to impress you. A fair assumption, really. Wyll tries to impress almost everyone he crosses paths with. It’s his nature.

Without warning, he reaches out and takes your left hand in his. “Shattered my wrist,” he begins, running a finger along the joint. “Here…” he flips your arm and runs it over the top, a little higher between the wrist joint and your forearm. “Here…” turning your arm once again, he almost encircles your wrist in the space between his thumb and index finger before running his thumb along the crease just below the heel of your hand. It tickles. “...And here.”

You glance up and your eyes meet across the table, Wyll still holding your wrist in his hand. It lasts a little too long, and you feel your face turn a little hot. Maybe it’s the proximity of the fire, maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the red, hot burning sensation in what feels like the back of your neck -- either way, you’re glad it’s hard to tell when a Tiefling is blushing. You laugh, gently pulling your hand back and settling it back onto the cup of wine you’ve been nursing. “You must have found a pretty skilled healer to mend that one,” you say, smiling and pausing to drink as much wine as you can in one mouthfull. “Must have hurt.”

“I’ve had worse.” A smile accompanies this, but it’s half-hearted, Wyll shifting a little in his seat. “Look,” his voice dips in volume, his jaw tensing ever so much. “I was thinkin’, once we take care of this tadpole thing… we should, uh…” he pauses, straightening is back, his smile returning, the bravado back from the brink. “You an’ me should keep goin’. There’s a whole lot for us to see out there, barrels of stuff for us to get up to. Reckon’ we’d make quite a team.”

You’re flattered, honestly, unable to stop the smile that creeps onto your face. It’s not a terrible idea, truth be told. Despite your disagreements at times, you and Wyll would probably make a good pair of travellers. “I think I just want to focus on the tadpoles right now, not the future,” you carefully say, choosing to be diplomatic. “...But that’s not a _no._ ”

 _“Not a no,”_ he repeats to himself, nodding. “I’ll take it.” He smiles a little, almost as though he’s forgotten you’re there. “Don’t have any plans with Astarion, then?”

“I…” it’s your turn to become hesitant now, because you’ve never really thought about this. You’ve been desperately trying to keep the future off the table, and while it’s kept the terror of what the tadpoles might do to you off your mind, it’s also meant you haven’t given much thought as to what will happen if you succeed in being freed from them. “I don’t have any plans at all, really,” you admit. “Not with anyone.”

“Reckon’ that’s fair,” he agrees. “But I also reckon’ it’s a good idea to have something to look forward--”

The bench you’re sitting on rocks a little, someone sitting beside you as they speak right over the top of Wyll. “And what plans have _you_ made, then?” Astarion asks him, reaching out and helping himself to a cup from the communal pile of crockery you have on one end of the table. You watch Astarion raise his eyes expectantly at Wyll, and you can almost _feel_ the atmosphere of the table turn from warm and inviting to icy cold. “More adventures? A spell as a mercenary? Or, perhaps you’ve had enough -- fatherhood, maybe?” He smirks, taking the bottle of wine they’ve been sharing and filling his own cup. “I imagine you must be nearing that age for humans, surely.”

Wyll’s expression has entirely shifted, clearly displeased with Astarion’s presence. “Was thinking Nyanzaru,” he says flatly. 

“Nyanzaru?” Astarion repeats, clearly pretending to be impressed. “Why _there?_ Such a long way to go without good reason.” He takes a sip of his wine, eyes fixed on Wyll. 

You can’t help but notice Wyll has tensed up, the relaxed posture from before gone, the Warlock not bothering to hide his frown as he responds. “If I’ve learnt anything from this whole thing, it’s that life’s short. Lotta’ places to see. Lotta’ people to help.”

“How noble. And what shall you be helping with, exactly?” A calculated pause follows. “Goblins?”

“Monsters.” Wyll’s reply is flat. Targeted. It’s then that you realise that, despite sitting so closely beside you that your legs are touching -- Astarion hasn’t looked at you _once_ since sitting down. He hasn’t come here to talk to _you,_ he’s come here to challenge Wyll.

You don’t know if he means it, but you catch Astarion’s eyebrow lift, just a little, as though he’s surprised that Wyll has accepted this silent, unspoken challenge. “A fair cause,” he says with a shrug “I’d certainly pick _you_ over a _Gur_ if it came to it,” he mumbles into his cup before taking another quick sip. “But you’re correct -- life _is_ short for some.” He feigns thought, finally turning to you, a knowing smirk on his face. “Tell me, _darling,_ how long do Tieflings tend to live, again?”

“Uh…” you shrug, trying to go along with this in the hope that being pleasant might bring down the tension a little. “Well… it depends on the Tiefling, but anywhere from 80 to 150 years, usually.”

Astarion smirks. “To _one-hundred-and-fifty_ years?” He repeats, false awe in his voice again, really making an effort to emphasize the largeness of the number. “Astounding. Elves -- or, well, _high_ elves such as myself aren’t even considered adults until then! And to think how many humans would give anything to have even _that_ long -- delightful, isn’t it?”

“And what ‘bout you?” Wyll asks, back straightening, eyes darkening. “Got any plans of your own? Or will you just go back to Old Mate once the tadpole--”

“Wyll,” you warn, a little surprised he’d bring Cazador up, even in this scenario. “Why don’t we talk about something else?” You try to keep your voice light, glancing between the two, terrified of where this is going. “Literally anything else.”

Astarion shakes his head. “Now, now, our friend here is asking a fair question.” He looks to Wyll. “I’d certainly hope not to return to my old Master, but I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t accept the possibility.” 

“Right. And what happens then?” Wyll asks. He’s now bouncing his leg under the table, like he’s on edge, anticipating something. “Do you never see her again, or do you bring her in for your Boss’s dinner like the rest?”

 _“Wyll.”_ You snap, horrified, your eyes wide. This was already tense, granted, but this is downright dangerous. Your eyes focus a little past Wyll and you can see Shadowheart looking up from the book she’s reading in front of the fire, her habit of eavesdropping and thirst for drama getting the better of her.

“I suppose he’d kill me _long_ before then,” Astarion replies, straight up ignoring your attempt to stop him. “I suspect the outcome wouldn’t be much different for you and your little devil friend -- I imagine she wouldn’t be too thrilled about sharing.” He continues, Wyll flexing his hands now. “Tell me, would _she_ kill our friend here, or would she get _you_ to do it?” 

Astarion smirks, well aware of what comes next -- and Wyll rises from his seat, entirely on queue, which thrills the vampire beside you. While this isn’t the first time you’ve seen Astarion deliberately bait someone like this, you’ve never seen him do it to an ally like this. “You got a problem with me, cold-skin?”

“Only that I wish you were this entertaining more often,” he retorts, taking another drink from his cup in defiance, as casualness to his reaction that only serves to enrage his opponent. Behind Wyll, Shadowheart has risen to her feet, openly frowning, taking her first few steps towards their little table set-up. You turn your head and catch sight of Gale emerging from his tent, equally as concerned. It looks like you’re not the only one anticipating the a fight, and this needs to stop before Lae’Zel gets herself involved and cuts someone down before a punch can be thrown.

“You’d better make some plans,” he warns, “‘cause once this _thing_ is outta’ my head--”

“You’ll _what?_ ” Astarion asks, all but grinning now, Wyll’s anger victory enough for him. “Drive a stake through my heart and win the girl?” Astarion’s gaze is locked to Wyll, and he reaches over, placing his arm across the back of your shoulders. “Because that ship has sailed, I’m afraid.” Your heart all but stops.

“She ain’t your meal-ticket,” Wyll warns.

You open your mouth to protest, to try to de-escalate. “I’m not--” but you freeze, suddenly keely aware of a finger trailing up and down your neck, gliding gently over the two prominent and tender bite-marks. 

“ _That_ ship,” Astarion remarks, “has _also_ sailed.”

For a moment you fear that Wyll is going to cast something before either of you can move out of the way, but when he braces himself on the edge of the table you realise he’s just going to try and leap over the thing and do it with his own hands. You grab at Astarion, rising to your own feet and trying to pull him away, but he doesn’t move an inch. To your luck, though, Shadowheart comes through, shouting as she grabs Wyll by the shoulders, pulling him back and away from the table before he can climb over it. It’s at this time that the obscenities start, Wyll half-struggling against Shadowheart’s hold, throwing all manner of threats and insults at Astarion.

Astarion, however, remains as he was, sitting calmly at the table, wine in hand, a bemused look on his face. This was a game for him, and he won -- he usually does. A hand lands on your shoulder, causing you to jump despite the gentleness of its touch. Gayle leans in, his voice low, “I’d suggest you get that friend of yours to safety before Lae’Zel wakes up,” he suggests, “we’ll see to Wyll, but I’m not sure she won’t take the excuse to put a sword in--”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” you say quickly, nodding to Gale and stepping back towards Astarion. 

You snatch his cup out of his hand, which seems to do the trick, pulling his attention from antagonising Wyll long enough for you to give him a firm and low _“now.”_ Maybe it’s your tone, or maybe it’s the look on your face, but he finally relents, dropping his shoulders and rolling his eyes. Astarion finally gets up, taking the bottle of wine with him, and follows you away from camp, turning back only to smirk at Wyll. More shouting follows, and you hear Gale using his _calmest_ of voices to try and talk the Warlock down as you make your way to the old building ruins.

“What the hell was that about?!” You snap at him in a hushed voice as you walk, still not confident that you’re out of earshot.

“A good time, that’s what it was about,” he laughs.

“I’ve spent all this time trying to make sure everyone gets along for just long enough to--”

“I wasn’t going to hurt him, come now,” he insists.

You glance back at him. “That wasn’t what I was worried about. He’s a _Warlock,_ you’re lucky he decided to try and do things the old fashioned way. I mean--” you pause, arranging the words in your head, trying to organise your anger. “I know you think you’re invincible, but what if he’d cast something and _I’d_ been hurt?” You’re actually unsure if this means anything to Astarion, but it’s a fair reason, if not to appeal to his own sense of self-preservation.

“Then I simply would have torn him to shreds,” he half-laughs, as though it’s meant to be obvious. “I’m the most _powerful vampire in the realms,_ he’s hardly what I’d consider to be a threat.” He scoffs to himself. “To challenge _me_ like that? The _audacity!”_

While you were fully prepared to have an argument of your own, this catches you off guard. “...Challenge?” You ask, finally reaching the ruins and stepping through the gap in the crumbles walls. 

“Surely you aren’t _that_ oblivious,” Astarion says.

You are, of course, aware that Wyll was flirting with you. It’s all he’s done ever since you agreed to help with the Goblin problem, and it’s definitely escalated as time has gone on, even with you and Astarion’s… _relationship_ not being any kind of secret. But you always assumed it was just part of his personality, part of his bravado. “I’m not, no,” you admit. “But it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like he doesn’t know about us.”

“That’s exactly my point,” Astarion insists, “he knows you’re _mine_ and yet he still has the audacity to try and--” he exhales, stopping himself. “He assumes I’m just going to leave you behind when all this is said and done. It’s insulting.”

“...Will you?” You ask.

His shoulders drop, his face shifting into a frown, thinking it over. “...That’s the problem,” he finally says after a moment, staring aside at nothing in particular. “I don’t know.” His eyes drift back to you. “It’s not for lack of wanting, I assure you. But it’s… well, it’s complicated.” Astarion takes a second to back up a few paces, sitting himself down on a large piece of rubble, taking another mouthful of drink. “If we don’t remove these things, we face an ever impending doom, and if we do...” he trails off, his eyes growing distant again.

“You go back to Cazador?”

“I assume so.”

“So… I find him and kill him,” you suggest, stepping forward and sitting beside him. The thought of this all has, absolutely, crossed your mind -- but you’ve tried to avoid it, unsure of how to bring it up. 

Astarion scoffs at the suggestion. “Your bravado is only outmatched by your Warlock friend,” he laughs. “I don’t know how many times I need to warn you that you’d be dead before you even set foot in the estate. He’d probably send me to do it, knowing him.”

“Really?” You ask. 

“Absolutely. He’d do it to torture me before he kills me.” He hesitates for a second, and you worry he’s going to do what he usually does and change the subject. “You’re the first person I’ve been… _involved_ with of my own accord for over 200 years, and you’ve become quite important to me -- you’ll be the first thing tries to take from me. He’ll punish my rebellion by having me destroy all the good to come from it. That much I’m sure of.” He pauses and scoffs again. “I’m surprised he hasn’t tried it already, honestly.”

“You’re talking as though it’s going to happen.”

“Unless we find a way to _control_ these parasites rather than do away with them completely, I have every reason to believe it will.” His jaw tenses a little, the volume of his voice lowering. “Sometimes, I worry that killing you might be too _kind_ for him. Knowing Cazador, he’ll probably want to turn you. Claiming you as _his_ property and making me watch him…” he stops himself. “...Sorry. It’s all rather _grim_ is what I’m trying to say.”

“You’ve been thinking about this a lot, haven’t you?” You ask, unable to hold back a frown.

“It crosses my mind more than I care for, yes,” he admits. “But moaning on about it is hardly of any use, is it?”

You watch him carefully. There’s something different to him, a change from his usual self-assuredness that you adore so much. It’s vulnerability. How _rare._

“Well, when the time comes and we find a way to remove the tadpoles,” you begin, a decisive edge to your voice, “we’ll just keep them. The others can do what they want.”

His eyes widen for a moment. “We?” He asks. 

You smile, reaching out and taking the wine bottle from him as you shrug. “If we don’t find a way to control the tadpoles, we’re _both_ as good as dead. You said so yourself.”

The look in his eyes soften even more for a moment, watching as you take your drink, eventually blinking away. “Your kindness is an absolute curse,” he finally says with a smile.

“Well, you’ll have to suck it up,” you hand him back the bottle. “You’re stuck with me now.”

Astarion eyes you momentarily before setting the wine down. “Darling,” he says softly, reaching out, cupping your cheek in his hand, the coldness of his touch reminding you of the first time you shared a bed -- the same way it does every time. “You’ve been stuck with me ever since you let me nibble on that neck of yours.”

He kisses you, his fangs grazing ever so gently against your bottom lip. He tastes like the wine, and you’re thankful that it’s a nicer red than the others you’ve been able to find out and about. The kiss deepens, lasting longer than you initially thought it would, his grip moving to the nape of your neck and tightening as you exhale and sigh against his touch. _Gods,_ there’s something about him that almost makes him addictive. You wonder if it’s the tadpoles. Maybe it’s, gods forbid, a side effect of his bites. Whatever the case, you’re glad it’s not only there but also reciprocated. 

Finally, he pulls away -- barely, just enough to speak, your foreheads leaning against each other. “I wonder -- how quiet do you think you can be? All this excitement has got me… wanting.”

“Quiet?” You ask with a smile. “You usually encourage me to be as loud as possible.”

“True,” Astarion smirks, tugging at the fabric of your tunic, trying to signal that he wants it over your head. Now. “But I’m starting to worry that Wyll might actually try and come at me with some garlic if I rile him up any further. Not to mention Lae’Zel if her sleep is any more interrupted...”

You’re happy to oblige, pulling the tunic over your head, undergarments following, interrupted only by his kisses. Once you’re undressed, he stops, holding you out at arms’ length by the shoulders, his eyes wandering over you. His gaze, like before, can be felt, and his right hand slowly trails its way from your shoulder, down the side of your breast, down to your waist. “Sublime,” he says to himself quietly.

“You think?” You ask, your fingers moving to undo the ties on his doublet, smiling at him as he continues to watch you. 

“Oh, I know so,” he says with a grin, patiently watching as you make your way down the row of ties. “You see a lot of bodies over the span of 200 years. I’d say that I’m something of an expert.”

“And mine’s ‘sublime,’ is it?” You know he means what he said, but there’s nothing wrong with a bit of an ego-boost, is there?

He shrugs off the doublet and takes a second to kiss you again, his own hands working on his pants. “Like a statue. I’m sure there’s no end to the artisans in Baldur’s Gate who’d do anything to work from such a reference.”

“You flatter me,” you laugh, laying back on the rubble, Astarion positioning himself over you and between your legs. 

“Is it working?”

“I’m naked, and you’re between my legs. What do you think?”

He leans down and kisses your neck, nibbling here and there, filling you with enough anticipation to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “Do you mind?” He asks, his voice low. You humm in approval. Of course you want it. The thrill of the bite is what makes the sex so intense, so unique, so intimate in a way you’re unsure you’ll find anywhere else. “Now… where shall I partake?” You can feel him smile against you. “Here?” he asks, planting a kiss on your neck where he bit you last time. “No, let’s rest that delicate skin… or… here…?” He drifts down kissing the space under your collar bone. “Difficult to latch, but it could work… ah! I think _here…”_ his kisses his way down to your breast, pausing over it and looking up at you. “May I?”

Astarion has, so far, bitten you on the neck and the inside of your wrist. But your breast? You wonder if it will hurt. ...But then again, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? The idea is… 

You nod, your eyes wide, overcome with the feeling the mere thought feels you with. Excitement? Lust? ...A little fear? Who knows anymore, honestly. Ever since you got off that ship, you’ve felt so many emotions every day that you have a hard time telling them apart at the best of times. 

He gives your breast a final kiss, hesitating in preparation for a brief moment, and then -- the sting, the sharp coldness, the bite always seems to steal all the breath from your lungs. And then, like always, there’s a pleasant numbness, and your nerves relax and redirect and all of a sudden a wave of pleasure courses through you like a shockwave, your back arching into his bite as you close your eyes.

And then, to your surprise (and, honestly, disappointment,) he releases you. Usually it lasts longer than this. Much longer, in fact. You open your eyes, seeing the blood smeared across your chest, Astarion eyeing you hungrily, blood smeared across his mouth. It’s then that he takes you, entering you with a slow but firm pressure, the taste of blood blooming in your mouth as he kisses you. “I know I say this every time, but you taste…” he sounds almost pained as he strains to speak, slowly and gently pacing himself inside you, “and _feel_ …” he stops to kiss you again, your hands drifting up and over his shoulders, behind his neck, your fingertips feeling the his muscles tense with each movement. “...incredible.” The word comes out as a groan, and he moves his head back down to your breast, licking around the bite on the top side of your breast, above your nipple, at the fresh blood that’s bled ever so slightly onto the surface. You can feel yourself take the entire length of him, and unable to help yourself, you release a moan that’s met with a cold hand covering your mouth. “Shhhhh now,” he all but coos, his voice close to a whisper. “We don’t want to bother the neighbours, do we?”

You whimper against his mouth as his head lowers again, licking around the bite again before pressing his lips directly to it and sucking. His hand still clasped over your mouth, the sound that involuntarily comes out of your mouth is muffled, your back arching once more, Astarion responding with a low growl from the centre of his chest. With one hand fixed to your mouth, the other finds its way to your other breast, gently caressing the shape of it first, the caresses turning into squeezes as he fucks you. 

Laying between Astarion and the stone beneath you, you’re more aware of your own body heat than ever, thanking whatever god or power is facilitating this sin that it’s a warm night. Your back arches, your head beginning to feel light, pleasure riding in on waves of adrenaline as it begins to feel like you’re floating. And then--

He releases his bite, suddenly moving his hands to your waist and flipping you on top of him. You gasp at the sudden movement, your head spinning. “Your turn” he whispers, grinning from beneath you, laying on his back, you straddling him, “the moon’s bright tonight, and I’d _hate_ to waste lighting like _this.”_

Usually you’re not the biggest fan of being on top -- you don’t like the way it makes your thighs feel wobbly afterwards -- but honestly? When Astarion feeds from you, it’s like half your brain leaves your body with your blood, and while anyone else might take advantage of the suggestibility you find yourself prone to, you trust him. Even before he bit you the first time, you trusted him. ...And, deep down, you’re _kind of into it._ Sometimes it’s just nice to let go, be little docile, let someone else--

You slip yourself down onto him and gasp, biting your lip and trying to be quiet, remembering what he said about noise. His fingers dig into your hips, and you immediately begin to sway them, almost wriggling against him as you start. There’s still blood smeared across his mouth -- your blood -- and there’s something deeply appealing about it. The way you fit together so perfectly, the way your own blood sustains him, how _hungry_ he always is for you, and how keen to please him you are? Sometimes you wonder if you were made for eachother. The chances of you two meeting? Astronomically small, especially given that if you’d met any other way, he probably would have killed you.

...It’s a little exciting, really, fucking someone as dangerous as him. You can defend yourself, absolutely, but when you’re naked and vulnerable like this? He could rip your throat out in a second if he wanted to.

But he won’t. You know it. You trust him down to your bones. 

He tilts his hips up a little, bottoming-out inside you and eliciting a surprised cry. _“Uh uh uh,”_ he scolds, clicking his tongue and sitting up a little to reach out and grab your throat. “What did I say?” His eyes all but bore into you, an eyebrow lifted, pleased with the metaphorical _and_ literal hold he has over you. And then he _grins,_ blood still staining his mouth -- _fuuuuuck._

“Quiet?” You whisper, eyes wide, very aware of the way his nails are digging into the sides of your neck. Hardly any sound comes out, and it’s honestly more of an airy tone as you mime the word. 

He eyes you carefully, like he’s assessing you, or, even more deviously, sizing you up as prey. You notice a fang glide over his bottom lip as he grin turns into a smirk, the hand around your throat moving down to clap down against your ass, causing you to flinch on him. For someone demanding near silence, he seems to have no problem--

“Good girl.”  
  
... _Fuck._

The sound that comes out of you can be described as nothing else but a whimper. You’re not sure if you’re horny, scared, or so horny that you’re scared -- and there is _zero_ chance that he hasn’t noticed.

“Now,” he says, fingertips digging into the flesh of your asscheek, “show me how a good girl treats the most powerful vampire in all the realms.” The grin returns. He’s enjoying this as much as you are, although you assume it’s more to do with his ego than being horny-scared like you are. 

Your teeth digging into your bottom lip, you oblige him, riding him like your life depends on it. It doesn’t, of course -- you know deep down that he wouldn’t lay a finger on you to _actually_ hurt you -- but that doesn’t stop you from pretending, even just a little. You, an otherwise ordinary tiefling, fucking the most dangerous vampire in Faerûn? Scandalous, thrilling, hot as hell. He rests back on an elbow, how abdomen tensing and flexing a little as he holds back a groan of his own, and you feel a sudden rush of pride at the thought of pleasing him.

This lasts about five minutes, choking down the moans you desperately want to release into the air, Astarion quietly cursing to himself, air catching in his throat. Longing for him to make more of those sounds, you bent forward slightly, changing the movement of your hips from a swaying to a _bouncing._ You lift your hips, feeling him slide out of you, and then drop them back down onto him, eliciting a groan from his lips that you’re _positive_ took him by surprise. As wonderful as it feels, and as much as you love the way he seems overwhelmed by this, you worry that you can only do this for so long before you hurt your back--

“Enough,” he declares under his breath, pushing up, one arm loops around your lower back and pulling you against him as you sit up, the other reaching up and gripping one of your horns in his hand, dragging you in for a kiss. His fangs cut into your lip as they graze across them, Astarion’s arm tensing around your arched back as he thrusts upwards and into you roughly. You’re so wet that you can literally _hear_ it as he fucks you, the two of you devolving into almost primal gasps and whines and groans as you cling to each other, the movements so violent that you find yourself pushing against the edge of the block of rubble you’re on with your tail in order to stay stable. 

“You, my dirty little Tiefling,” he growls, his breath hot against your ear, “are _mine.”_ He pauses as you tense up around him. It’s coming, and you’re dreading having to be quiet. “Say it.”

“I… I…” you’re tripping over your words, absolutely fuck-drunk right now, worried you’ll scream if you follow through.

“You’re _what?_ ” A hand seizes your throat again, his head pulling back, eyes locking to yours. “I want to _hear_ it.”

“I’m--- _aaaaahhh!_ ” Your hips buck as you lose control over both your body and the volume of your voice, your lower body erupting into a starfall of electrical shocks as you cum. “I’m yours!” You whine, your eyes all but rolling into the back of your head as you throw it back, trying to be quiet again. “All yours!”

That’s enough for him, apparently, Astarion pulling your head forward again you kiss you, groaning into his mouth as he follows you into the same spasming, tensing mess -- albeit much quieter than you.

* * *

It was an effort, but, somehow, by some miracle, Shadowheart and Gale have managed to talk Wyll into retiring to his tent for the evening -- _without_ awakening Lae’Zel. 

Returning to the campfire, a bottle of wine tucked beneath his arm, Gale dusts his hands off -- although Shadowheart supposes that it’s primarily for show given that Gale isn’t really a fan of physical labor. “Done. Our friend is down and out for the evening and should wake up well rested and a little calmer tomorrow morning.”

She watches the wizard sit, raising an eyebrow. “We still need to decide who’s keeping watch tonight. I’m not convinced he won’t try and take to Astarion with a tent-peg before the sun rises, if I’m to be honest.” She glances to Wyll’s tent, checking for any movement or lights from the small gap in the tent’s flap. “Territorial men like him don’t let these matters go lightly.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Gale replies, ever triumphant as he gets after solving a problem. “I’ve taken care of it.”

“...What do you mean?” She asks, more and more suspicious with each second. A thought comes to mind, a devious one. “Join our friend for a night-cap, did we?” Shadowheart smirks to herself as Gale chuckles and shakes his head. He’s not offended, and it wasn’t her intent to do so -- but she just can’t resist a good teasing when the opportunity presents itself. 

“I’m afraid not,” he replies, raising an eyebrow in good humour, “though I admire the scope of your ever-active imagination. No, just a simple sleep spell. Probably the best sleep he’s had in a while.”

A singular, surprised laugh escapes her. A kind of problem-solving she wouldn’t have expected from Gale of all people, given his nature. “A sleep spell?” She repeats. “If one of us stays awake to make sure Astarion doesn’t decide to--”

“Astarion isn’t the one I’m worried about,” Gale interrupts, pausing, pointing his index finger upwards and a little bit behind him, gesturing for Shadowheart to wait.

It’s then that she hears it -- a long, unrestrained, wanton moan in the distance, echoing from the ruins, the sheer force of it enough to even make _her_ cheeks feel a little hot. 

The two share a knowing look and burst into laughter, not even able to be shocked anymore. “How _debauched,”_ she jokes. 

Gale nods, offering her wine bottle. “As spirited as our well-meaning Warlock friend is, he never stood a chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you like tail-pulling and stuff because i've decided that astarion does and it's what the next chapter is about


	3. Tail.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> huge thank you to Doechi and Aryaesque for inspiring me to fuck with tail-pulling/tailplay and elf-ears respectively. you are doing god's work.  
> i am absolutely blessed to have all your support and to have so many people enabling me with kind comments. please keep letting me know what you think because commentary keeps me plugging away and inspires me. i'm also happy to take requests because even though i am permanently in horny-jail, i only have so many ideas.  
> also feel free to connect with me on twitter, buckaroos. link's in my profile. always looking for more baldur's gate/dnd buddies
> 
> also i know that tails haven't been prehensile since like 4e or whatever but uh whenever something like that happens, a wizard did it

You find him sitting by the stream beside the camp, resting with his back against a log, a book in one hand a cup of wine in the other. It’s a rare day of rest in the camp. Or, rather, a day of preparation. Wyll and Shadowheart are out gathering the last of the supplies you’ll need before venturing into the Underdark, Lae'zel is sharpening and repairing weaponry, Gale is enchanting what he can, and Astarion is… reading, apparently.

“What are you doing?” You ask, arms dropping by your side, a little irked that you’ve come here to repair some arrows only to find him relaxing. You’re hardly surprised, of course, but it’s just a tiny bit disappointing. 

He glances up at you, taking a second to look you up and down, his eyebrow lifting a little when he sees that you’re carrying an assortment of bits and pieces for your task. “Reading,” he replies, matter of factly, returning his attention to his book. “And you?”” 

You sit beside him, unceremoniously dropping the arrow shafts on the ground in front of you. “Re-fletching these arrows. You know -- contributing?”

“I’m contributing,” he insists, taking a final sip from his cup and setting it down on the ground beside him. “I happen to be reading all about what’s to come. We can’t just go in there without a plan, can we? We need to know what to expect.”

Curious, you peer over his arm, quickly skimming over a paragraph. You almost feel like a fool for being willing to believe that it’s some kind of field guide -- it’s pornography. “This is smut,” you say blankly, your face flat, unimpressed.

He shrugs, a hint of guilt on his face, but it only lasts so long. “Smut about _Drow._ It’s all rather important.” He pauses, the guilt vanishing behind a smirk. “I have to make sure you’re taken care of, don’t I?”

“I’m not a Drow.”

“You certainly have the attitude of one sometimes,” he quips, closing the book. “And anyway, I’ve done as much as I can for now,” Astarion tilts his head beside him, and it’s when you look past him that you notice it -- several small piles of arrows, all glistening with different substances, some all but glowing, others dripping in what looks to be grease. “Until you finish fletching the ones in front of you, there’s little else for me to do but take in the last of this sun while I can, don’t you agree?”

The smirk stays fixed to his face as you look between him and the pile of arrows in front of you, the vampire clearly finding pleasure in proving you so wrong. He’s clearly not _actually_ mad at you, but something else stirs a pang of anxiety in your chest. “Sorry, I… I didn’t…”

“Consider that I would mourn over losing daylight?” He finishes for you, the grin softening a little, and he swats away a fly. “It _is_ a niche’ loss, I will admit. Can’t say I hold you at fault.” His eyes drift upwards, looking at the clouds, blue skies behind them. “As much as I enjoy night-time proclivities, I must say… I _have_ missed it -- although I can’t say I realised as much until I found myself on that beach.” He pauses, watching you awkwardly eye the arrow shafts in front of you, trying to figure out if you should leave him be or not. “Stay,” he says quietly, eyes back on the sky. “Believe it or not, I do enjoy your company, even fully-dressed.”

Your shoulders drop, the quiet declaration putting you at ease. It’s not that you don’t think Astarion wants you around or likes you -- to the contrary, he’s made it perfectly clear that he feels strongly about you. He is, however, a complicated man, hedonistic and exciting one second, bitter and withdrawn the next. Sometimes, depending on the topic, you have to operate on feel alone, tiptoeing around things he’s not ready to discuss, things he’s probably still working out for himself -- fair, given that this is the first chance he’s had to do so after 200 years. You can hardly envy him.

You share silence for a few moments, and you begin to re-fletch an arrow, enjoying the quiet sounds of the stream before you. “You know,” he suddenly speaks, shifting a little, “I’ve been wanting to ask you something.” Your eyes dart to him curiously. Astarion’s favorite topics usually revolve around _him._ “You’ve never told me if you have anyone waiting for you in Baldur’s Gate.” He looks to you, his eyebrow a little raised, his trademark smirk across his face. 

“You’ve never asked,” you reply with a smile of your own, a little surprised that he’s even bothering to ask.

“Well, it wasn’t as though it was going to stop me, was it?” A grin. He’s entirely correct, of course. You could have been married for all he cares. 

You laugh, rounding it off with a “No. There isn’t.” You take a second, finishing off an arrow and setting it side, moving onto the next shaft. “I mean, I have friends, some distant relatives… but no one _special_ , if that’s what you’re interested in.”

 _“Well,”_ he says with a gentle laugh, “colour me surprised. That’s utterly scandalous, given your…” Astarion’s voice lowers a little, _“expertise.”_

“I said I didn’t have anyone waiting for me,” you correct, finishing another arrow, the same fly from before buzzing behind your head. “I didn’t say I was a nun.” 

“Even if you _did_ tell me that, I’d never believe you,” he teases. 

You scoff under your breath, not even sure how to respond to that, but comfortable that it doesn’t need one. If Astarion really wanted to rile you up, he’d do so. No, this is a comfortable little joke, and getting to share this with him is something you’re aware is special, as is this moment.

The fly, however, is ruining it, testing your patience. As it buzzes past your head and into the space between yourself and Astarion, you raise your tail and slap it with the tip of your tail, killing the insect -- or maybe knocking it out, if it’s lucky. 

Astarion’s eyes widen. While this was absolutely nothing to you, it seems it was _something_ to him. “What in the hells was _that?”_ he asks, a grin blossoming, his eyes now fixated on the tip of your tail. 

“A fly.”

“No,” he says quickly, audibly excited, “that… that _thing_ you just did.” He pauses, watching you lower your tail, lips pressing together, the smile remaining. “It’s funny, you know -- I’ve seen you completely nude _several_ times and I’ve never given any thought to your tail’s potential.”

“Potential? What do you--” You don’t get to finish before he grabs it in his hand. His hold is gentle, but it’s still enough of a shock to make your entire body flinch. “Astarion!” You snap.

He gently bends it towards him, eyes flickering to you, that same, puppy-dog expression he had when he first tried to drink from you. “What?” He asks. “I’m only _looking.”_ He runs a finger along the end of it, and the sensation makes your whole body quiver -- visibly, and in a way he _absolutely_ catches given the way his smirk returns. “I’ve seen every _other_ part of you, after all. ...Although I had no idea how sensitive _this_ part was.”

You shift uncomfortably, looking around to check if there’s anyone nearby. You’re far enough from camp that you’re far from earshot, but if someone comes looking for you… “It’s probably sensitive because it’s part of my spine,” you explain, keenly aware of the way he’s now gently pinching at the tip of it, glancing upwards to gauge your reaction every now and then. You shift, inhaling sharply after a particularly effective pinch. It is, actually, extremely sensitive if someone knows what they’re doing -- and Astarion is a quick study.

“Good to know,” he says under his breath, lifting the tail towards his face. Surely he isn’t. No. He wouldn’t-- _oh!_ He nibbles along the flat edge of the tip, gently, nowhere near hard enough to be anything like a bite, but just enough that you can feel the sharpness of his teeth. You make a noise that sits somewhere between a squeal and a giggle, jerking forward, throwing a hand over your mouth as the feeling absolutely reverberates through your entire body and up your neck. The vampire is _thrilled_ by your reaction, pulling away to laugh. “Well, well, well,” he chuckles, watching as you try to collect yourself. _“This_ is a most interesting development.”

He doesn’t wait for or allow you a response, his fingers gliding up and along the length of your tail, passing the not-so-sensitive middle all the way to the base, his fingers slipping a little under the back of your doublet to reach it. You shudder, trying to not give away how your breath is catching, but it doesn’t fool him at all. “So, if I’m to make an educated guess…” he grips around the base with one hand, squeezing, a rhythm to it kind of like a massage, and you lurch again, your hands bracing against the ground as you bite down on your lip. “Very, _very_ good,” he says to himself, using his free hand to cup the side of your face and kiss you, the base of your tail now throbbing along with his touch. It sends wave after wave of pleasure through you, an almost sickly sweet feeling running up your spine and into the back of your head, and echoing down into… Unable to help yourself, a low, soft moan escapes you, and you can feel him smile, even in the kiss. “You know, I’d love to inspect it more closely -- but I’m afraid I’d have to ask you to undress.” His hand finally leaves your tale, drifting upwards, gently smoothing over the bare skin of your back underneath the doublet that you’re untying. He doesn’t need to ask you twice, and the excitement of possibly getting caught is just as exciting as knowing he could rip your throat out with his teeth if he wanted to. 

You open the doublet, Astarion quickly pulling your undershirt up and above your breasts to expose them -- something you’re thankful for. Despite enjoying the thrill of being so exposed, you’re a little too meek to get totally naked out here. For now, anyway. Knowing what you get like when he bites you, you might not have a problem in about five minutes. One hand grips the base of your tail again, another running over one of your breasts as he kisses down your jaw. How rude of him, you think, shuddering into his touch again, losing your breath. Finding one of the most sensitive secrets about your body and exploiting it like this. You’ve had your share of flings, but every non-Tiefling you’ve ever been with has been too afraid of offending you to so much as suggest touching your tail. A shame, given how it really seems like each race has their own special--

You pause, thanking back to one of those flings, something mischievous sparking within you. You can’t exactly speak for half-Orcs or gnomes, but you _have_ had a few elves in the past, and if there’s one thing you picked up…

You lean in, kissing him for a moment, before shifting your weight onto your knees and passing the side of his face. You wait a second, just in case he flinches away from you. Satisfied that he’s comfortable, you very gently take the tip of his ear into your mouth, pressing it against your lip with your tongue. In a glorious turn of events, it’s _your_ turn to listen to him as _his_ breath catches. His grip around the base of your tail tightens, causing you to moan against the tip of his ear, the subtle vibrations obviously doing something judging by the way he arches his back. Pleased with this new development, you begin to suck -- very gently -- and you can feel his head tilt a little. His mouth opens, breath quivering, eyes closed. And then, it happens: a choked moan. All of a sudden, it’s as though he’s somewhat at your mercy, and it’s a substantial victory for you. You want to hear it again. 

Unable to withhold your curiosity, you run your hand up his thigh across his crotch, delighted by the hardness you can feel. You start to nibble ever so slightly at his ear as your fingers set to untying the crotch of his pants, reaching inside and freeing him, feeling him twitch between your fingers. You move the tip of your tail, unimpeded by the hold he has on the base, and bring it to where your hand is. Releasing the tip of his ear for a moment, you smile and whisper, “let me show you what else it can do,” before wrapping the end of your tail around him, covering the entire middle section of his shaft, making him gasp again, your chest tightening at the sound. 

“You cheeky--” he cuts himself off immediately when your tail begins to stroke him, all but stealing his voice from him as you go back to licking and kissing the tip of his ear. The fingers wrapped around the base of your tail dig in, your core tightening with the sensation as his free hand moves to the nape of your neck. You pull away for just long enough to catch a glimpse of his face -- his eyes are almost rolling back, and you pretend to not see, lest you damage that valuable pride of his.

You continue to stroke him, upping the pace ever so much as you go, the same way you would if you’d been using your hands. Every now and then you take the opportunity to pull back from your nibbling and kiss him, taking in his expression, the melty look in his eyes that you think you’ve only ever seen once or twice. At one stage, you get a glance of precum glistening on the skin of your tail, the sticky, glossy feeling making your spine shiver, ever present on such a sensitive spot. It’s a wonder you haven’t done this with him before, really, given how good it feels for both of you, your body feeling as though it’s about to quake with every stroke you give him, the squeezing at the base of your tail making the rest of you _throb_ in rhythm. 

Astarion’s breathing begins to quicken as you use a free hand to run a finger along the tip of his other ear, and you can feel his body tensing against you. Before you can stop yourself, you accidentally let out a chuckle under your breath, somewhat self-satisfied that you’ve so quickly managed to--

The grip on the base of your tail seizes, going from comfortably tight to menacing, a growl erupting from the base of his throat as he pulls it back, effectively dragging you with it and throwing you down onto your stomach. You grunt as you hit the ground, the grass cold against your bare chest, and notice that Astarion’s grip on your tail has slid from the base to the middle. “When did I say I was finished with you?” he asks, a little more breathless than usual, a dark tone to his voice as you feel his other hand grab at the waistband of your leggings and yank them down, your smallclothes coming with them. He pulls your tail upwards, causing your ass to rise in the air to follow, yelping as it sends a shock wave up your body, one that you swear you can feel in your teeth. “I haven’t had my fill of you just yet.”

He’s inside you in what feels like seconds, your fingers gripping at the grass as he takes you. He’s slow at first, both of you savoring the first few moments, the deep penetration that this position offers not going unnoticed by either of you. You sigh his name into the grass, his hand smoothing over one of your ass cheeks to gently steady your middle lower back. Anyone could come across you right now if they chose to seek you out, but you don’t care anymore. Your body is on fire, your nerves working overtime from all the tail stimulation, and while it’s close to overwhelming, your mind is only able to focus on how good his cock feels inside you.

Your tail yanks backwards, pulling you tighter against him, and you cry out, Astarion giving a sharp inhale before settling and laughing. “I only wish I’d thought of this sooner,” he says before speeding up his pace, the sound of skin against skin washed out by the river beside you. “One can only…” he stops for a moment, a groan escaping from behind gritted teeth. “One can only imagine how you learned all this. You must have quite the reputation back in Baldur’s Gate.” He leans down a little, pulling back on your tail as he does so, more shockwaves running up your spine as he whispers to you. “But we _both_ know that I bring out the _best_ in you, isn’t that right?”

His pace picks up even more, one of your horns digging into the soil beside your head. Even if you wanted to straighten yourself up, the way he’s pulling on your tail forbids you from doing so -- not that you’re even sure you want to. There’s something special about being fucked like this, your face in the dirt, Astarion having complete physical dominion over you. And outside, of all places -- in the middle of broad daylight. If you got caught, it’d be embarrassing for you, but a moment of pride for Astarion. A brag. A trophy. Gods, he thinks you something special, doesn’t he? Something unique, something to be lusted over and coveted. He _wants_ everyone to know what he gets to do to you -- and you absolutely _love_ it.

You’re snapped out of thought by a sharp pain, but unlike the usual one that comes with bites, this one courses through your entire body, as does the numbness. While you worry for a moment that the feeling won’t return -- when it happens? It _happens,_ the pleasure rolling through you as he bites into the tip on your tail only being comparable to actual, very real ecstasy. Your hips buck, and you writhe under his grip, your whole body white-hot with a dazzling, tingling, nearly electrical pleasure as you come. He releases your tail from his mouth, growling again as he slams his hips into you harder and faster. Your orgasm lasts longer than usual, washing over you in waves -- you’ve never come from his bite alone, and you wonder if it’s because of how overstimulated your nerves are. Either way, though, it hardly matters to you. You feel _way_ too good to care. When he comes, he grips your tail so hard so his nails dig in a little too far, stinging as they break the skin, but you’re so fuck-drunk that it barely registers with you. You’re much too focused on feeling him, hearing him, feeling satisfied that you’ve managed to please him like this.

He sits back, audibly panting for air as your body is finally allowed to sag to the ground, Astarion relinquishing your tail with a soft kiss. You both stay like that for a moment, spent, trying to come back to earth. Your fingertips feel like they’re vibrating, and your whole body feels as though it’s glowing. Eventually, though, you feel his hands on you again, sitting on your shoulders before gripping them, pulling you up and into a sitting position. “Are you alright?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you exhale, pulling your undershirt down to cover yourself. “Better than alright.”  
  
“Good,” he’s already collected himself and re-dressed, and watches as you bring the waistband of your leggings back up over your hips. Your hair is a mess, but that will have to be fixed later. “I was worried that I'd hurt you -- mortals being so fragile and all that business, and with my tendency to drag you around by the spine.” There’s a pause, his smirk returning. “I’m rather enamored with that tail of yours, I must say.”

“I gathered that.” You throw your arms above your head, stretching, your neck cracking a little. “I don’t feel very woozy this time, though,” you note. “Wonder if I’m getting used to the bites.”

He reaches out and brushes some hair behind your ear, which is… _unusual_ for him, to say the least. “Actually, I didn’t _feed_ from you. Just bit you.” He smiles, reaching further up and smoothing the top of your hair. “You seem to be quite the fan, if I may be so observant.”

“Why didn’t you feed?” You ask. “You know I don’t mind.”

“Because I’m not hungry, darling.” He continues fixing your hair, and it’s then that you take in something unusual. His face is… softened, his eyes have an unusual look to them, and you could almost mistake it for genuine affection. ...In fact… it is…

And then he finishes fixing your hair for you and it’s gone, his usual smirk taking its place. 

“Although,” he remarks, shrugging, “I probably will be later, if you’re open to another nibble.” He gestures to your pile of broken and unfletched arrow shafts, and you wonder if he meant to look at you that way. You wonder if he _wanted_ you to notice. “But I believe there’s still an entire pile of shafts for you to see to, you little minx.”

You roll your eyes, pretending to ignore how pleased he is with his little innuendo, and turn back to the pile of broken arrows. You take one in your hand, still marvelling at the lingering tingling sensations, when you feel something else that makes you flinch -- hands on your tail. You snap your head around, ready to insist that he at least give you time to physically recover, expecting to see him nibbling on it or something.

But you don’t. Instead, Astarion has taken a strip of cloth from his own preparations and is carefully bandaging the tip of your tail up -- completely unprompted, too. You make a mental note of the sight of it, realising it’s a very, very special sight, and quickly go back to your arrows, not wanting to point it out, knowing how hard a time he has swallowing his pride.

You’ll take it. You don’t know what it is, or what it means, but you’ll take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> send requests or prompts plz i thrive on filling them


	4. Wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut in this one kiddoes, came to me pretty suddenly, it's really just some short filler while I work on some more smut for you deviants based on requests, but I had some requests for more ___FEELINGS___ and some stuff from Astarion's POV so this should tide you over. Thanks so much for all the suggestions and requests, I'd be absolutely fucked if I didn't have those to go off tbh and I'm uh. stepping outside my usual stuff, which is a really fun little exercise. Keep them coming!
> 
> CN here for some IMPLIED dubious consent but it's Cazador/reader related and non-graphic and doesn't _actually_ happen if that helps you at all.

He’s in a bit of a precarious situation right now, one that he’s not used to at all. You’re dead to the world, asleep with your head resting on his shoulder. He’s partially to blame, at least -- it’s _his_ fault you’re so worn out, given what he’s spent the last hour or so doing to you. But this is…

Honestly? As long as no one is listening to his thoughts? It’s quite nice. Not that he’ll tell _you_ that. 

...Why _not,_ though?

He’d be a fool to admit that there’s not something else here, something more than sex, a genuine and growing affection for you. And he’d also be a fool to not know that it’s reciprocated -- you’re not the first person to find themselves falling for him over the last 200 years. He knows it when he sees it. He likes you enough, after all. You’re smarter than he’d originally assessed you to be, and sharp-witted, too. There are times where he catches you being so charismatic in your negotiations that it’s a wonder that anyone’s ever managed to say ‘no’ to you in your entire life. Funny, too -- not as funny as he is, of course, but every now and then you surprise him. ...You’re certainly fun to look at, too. There’s always been something about you that causes him to catch himself staring a little too long. 

Astarion is no stranger to indulgence, so what’s the harm in indulging in you beyond the realm of flesh? Would it be so bad, maybe, to give in to the encroaching feelings of affection? Your situation is dire, time and circumstance not on your side, but is there really anything wrong with meeting someone to call yours in such a way? After all, it’s not every day that Astarion meets someone who genuinely excites him, someone who can keep up with him to the point of almost outpacing him. You’re a rarity, indeed. It would almost be criminal to not hold on to you. 

But what would you do if he did let this in, he wonders? You’re mortal, he’s a vampire. You’ll age and die, and then what? He moves along? Onto the next? That hardly seems fair on _you_ , given how wonderful he is. You shift a little and your horn gently knocks into his collarbone. You _are_ a Tiefling -- they’re rather persecuted as it is. Perhaps, if you were amenable to it, you might be open to…

His jaw tenses at the thought of you turning, guilt panging him in the chest. Even considering that as a possibility seems _wrong,_ not to mention impossible. What would he do? Find a full vampire willing to do him a favour? And that would be just to turn you, not to mention the act of relinquishing control of you. Does he expect you’ll just run off into the sunset together? 

Still, even enjoying another 100 years of your company doesn’t seem like a terrible prospect. You indulge him, he indulges you, there’s a balance. And there’s trust -- so much trust that he’s come to value so dearly that he can feel his skin crawl at even the _thought_ of condemning you to the existence of a spawn. Gods, what in the hells do you _see_ in him, he wonders? ...Other than his astonishingly good looks and consummate love-making, of course. He thinks of Wyll, how the Warlock had thrown himself at you, his bravado and arrogance only being matched by his sense of entitlement -- whatever you see in Astarion that you hold so dearly, he supposes it’s hardly as though he ever had any real competition to begin with. You don’t want to be chased. You want to be treasured, ravaged, explored and savoured like a fine meal -- as on the nose as that comparison might be, it’s true. In a world full of delicious souls, you’re a delicacy.

You give a particularly long exhale in your sleep, bringing Astarion’s attention back to the feel of you against him. The softness of your body, the warmth of your skin, the scent of whatever it is you’ve used to wash your hair -- something involving gardenias, he’s guessing -- he’s all quite lovely, a delight for the senses, something soothing to it. That’s what you are, really. A delight. Deliciousness incarnate, like you were made in a workshop just for him, designed by someone who knows his own tastes better than himself.

He closes his eyes, deciding to indulge himself just this once. He’s earned a treat, after all. If you ask, he’ll just tell you that he didn’t want to wake you after you so _rudely_ passed out on him.

And then, almost as soon as he begins to meditate, there’s a shift inside his mind. Gone is the feeling of your softness against him, the rhythm of your breathing, the scent of your hair -- the world around him turns cold, the smell of dust, smoke, and blood permeating the air. Astarion stands on his own two feet, the only warmth on his back from a fireplace, Cazador on a luxurious bed before him -- you lay in Cazador’s arms, your naked chest drenched in your own blood as the Vampire Lord takes his fill from your neck. Your eyes are fixed on Astarion, glazed over, filled with fear, your mouth open and too weak to speak. The colour is drained from you, leaving you a pale, almost pastel version of what you used to be. 

Astarion looks down, following the stench of rot that creeps up on him. A putrid, rotting rat lays on the rug at his feet. 

“A beautiful offering, boy,” Cazador growls from the space between your head and neck. “I wasn’t going to accept your apology at first,” he explains as Astarion notices the other corpses, the bodies of Shadowheart and Gale, discarded like common carrion, completely drained, pale as marble. “But this one is a _fine_ amende honorable.” Your arm is fully outstretched, completely limp, and Astarion can see more than one set of bite marks -- your wrist, the crook of your elbow, your body completely bare and allowing him to spot the bite on the inside of your thigh. Cazador has _feasted_ on you in every meaning of the word. The sheets of the bed are soaked red. Astarion knows these sheets. They’re meant to be white.

Cazador’s gaze catches Astarions, his body locking up. “I can smell you on her,” Cazador says, his expression dark. “You drank from this one, didn’t you?” He pauses, waiting for a response he knows he won’t receive, and shakes his head. “It’s the _first_ of my commandments _,_ you foolish thing,” he exhales, turning to look over your face. He glances between the two of you, and a smirk blossoms across his blood-stained mouth. “Perhaps _this_ one shall do a better job of remembering.”

Astarion tries to fight the hold his master has on him. He wants desperately to shout, to beg him, to plead for a flaying instead -- but he can’t. His voice is caught in his throat. “Would you like that?” Cazador asks you, his voice gentle, markedly different to the tone he uses when speaking to Astarion, a soothing, seductive quality to it. “To spend eternity with him? To cheat death?” He smirks, his eyes flickering back to Astarion again. This is deliberate. Calculated. “For him to bring you to me, so I can offer you this… why, he must love you _dearly._ ” Cazador pauses. _“Truely.”_

Astarion watches helplessly as Cazador lowers his lips to your neck again, continuing to drain you, but stopping just short of killing you, letting you fall unconscious -- but still breathing, primed to turn at any moment. You fool. You _idiot._ What have you damned yourself to? What have you done to yourself?

What has Astarion done to you?

His eyes snap open, your name on the tip of his tongue as he gasps for air, ready to cry out and plead for Cazador to kill you rather than drag you into hell -- but Cazador is gone, replaced by the interior of your tent. You’re still there, resting on his shoulder, asleep and breathing, full of colour, your heart beating at full strength. 

Panic overcomes him, and while he’s unsure if what he just saw was the work of the tadpole, Cazador trying to reach him, or his own mind -- he has no desire to linger on it. He shifts, clearing his throat, doing his best to make it as loud as possible so as to rouse you from your sleep. “Astarion?” You ask, your voice quiet, eyes bleary as they open. “How long was I--”

 _“Too_ long,” he cuts in, giving you the same smile that always seems to satiate your curiosity. If you have one flaw, it’s that: your damned curiosity. “It seems I well and truly wore you out.” You move off him as he sits up, finally freeing him to reach out for his doublet, which has been discarded by the entrance of the tent along with the rest of your clothes. “Not that I’m complaining, but perhaps you should learn some self control.” A pause and a smirk. “Though, I understand that it’s hard to control yourself around _me.”_

You smile, playfully rolling your eyes and watching him secure the ties on his doublet. “Yes, it’s all I think about,” you tease, shaking your head. 

“How kind of you to admit it.”

Fully dressed, he leans forward and places a kiss on your forehead -- something he immediately regrets doing -- and moves to leave. “Astarion?” You ask, bringing him to a sudden halt before he can open the tent’s flap. He turns his head to respond, stopping himself when he realises what you’re doing. You’ve sat yourself up, and you’ve just finished bringing your hair over one of your shoulders, exposing your neck. “You didn’t feed before.”

Usually, the sight of you offering yourself to him like this would ignite something in him, both the literal and figurative hunger he feels for you. It might even have been enough to bring him back for another round -- but after that vision? His skin feels even colder than usual, and he can swear that he can still smell the rotting rat. “Very generous of you, darling,” he says, doing his best to seem his usual self. “However, I’m feeling especially peckish tonight, and as delicious as you are, I’m afraid that I’ll need a bigger fill than you can safely provide.”

He leaves your tent, making a beeline to the forest -- partially to hunt, partially to be away from everyone with his thoughts. Usually, this kind of mood would make him abrasive at worst, but given what he’s seen? He can’t guarantee that he won’t rip Wyll’s larynx out if he decides to pester him again. Why did he see that? And never mind _why_ he saw it -- why did it feel so real? Why has it shaken him like this? It’s far from the first ‘nightmare’ he’s had since this parasite has made a home in his brain.

This, he decides, is why he doesn’t indulge in your genuine affection -- and he was a fool to pretend that he has any right to do so.


	5. Hips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (in which i give you a little bit of backstory and finally get to add a cunnalingus tag, i really hope it doesn't break your character immersion too much, i wanted to keep it kind of loose and non-specific so everyone could self-project their own tieflings but this kind of just... went this way. )
> 
> rope play is coming, i PROMISE. You've all requested the fuck out of it, it's next, I'm working on it, but this one just _happened_ you know? 
> 
> Thanks to Manacats and bettiqua for giving me the ideas for this one tho
> 
> (also, I started a discord server for BG3 and it's super Astarion heavy if you'd like to come say hello and also get regular updates and share your own stuff. Let me know if you'd like an invite and I'll send you one :) )

“You know,” he says, running his finger over the surface of the fine stone table that remains in the Temple, a relic from an era before the Goblins arrived. “If you gave this place a bit of a clean up, it’d be quite lavish.” You sit at the head of it, a book and jar of wine in front of you. It’s meant to be your turn to keep watch, to let the others rest further down the temple. You should, really, stay nearby -- but you’d become bored, restless, and decided to venture forth with your wine until you found this book. 

Astarion should be resting, too, but you know better than to argue with him. This is an almost expected behaviour by now. “Lavish?” You repeat, glancing up from your book. It’s been a frustrating day -- Gale has, thanks to a comedy of poor choices on his part -- seriously injured his leg in a trap. Despite being directly above your path to the Underdark, you will now have to go all the way back to the Grove, where Halsin assures you it can be fixed up by a team of helpful healers in a matter of hours. Usually, Astarion’s playful banter is welcome, but right now? This collection of Goblin writings is quite an attractive prospect. “I suppose you’d be the expert.”

“Quite.” There’s a hint of pride in Astarion’s voice. “I spent a lot of my time seducing nobles.” He pauses when your eyebrow lifts a little. “To lure them to Cazador,” he adds. “He had what you could call a  _ refined  _ pallet, so off to their haunts I’d go. Hardly better days, but I’ll admit that I did become accustomed to the…” he thinks it over for a moment. “...Opulence.” You don’t really respond, somewhere between being too focused on trying to figure out what this Goblin was trying to write about and waiting for Astarion to add something. He usually does. Some kind of joke. A playful little insult. “I suppose we should be thankful that it was all a little above your station. Who knows what would have become of you if we’d crossed paths.”

_ This _ catches your attention. Your mood is already bordering on foul tonight, and if he’s not careful, his usual manner of thorned banter is going to push you over the line. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, my dear,” he coos, leaning against the edge of the stone table, an unmistakably flirtatious look in his eyes, “that the way you entice me would have led to your own--”

_ “No,” _ you cut in. “I mean the  _ ‘above my station’  _ part.” You close the book, thoroughly unimpressed, and cross your arms. 

“I…” he pauses, his eyes a little widened, which is an unusual but not totally familiar sight. You know Astarion well enough by now to know that his attitude goes one of three ways when he can’t talk his way out of something -- either he grovels just enough to get him out of danger without damaging his pride, tries to talk his way out of it  _ anyway, _ or he behaves like a toddler who was just told ‘no’ for the first time. “What I meant to say was…” another pause. His shoulders drop, his head tilting a little to the left. “...Actually, you’ve never told me what you  _ did _ before getting spirited away.”

“You’ve never asked.”

He raises an eyebrow. “We seem to run into this a lot,” he points out, pulling one of the stone chairs out from the table. “Tell me, then,” he exhales as he sits, his tone sounding as though he’s admitting defeat. “I want to hear all about your…  _ sordid  _ past.”

“Nothing sordid about it,” you explain, “I was an artist. Sold paintings.”

Astarion dramatically blinks at this revelation of yours, watching you drink from your wine. “You?” He asks. “You can  _ paint?” _

You nod, humming an affirmative  _ “mmmhmmm” _ into your cup before setting it back down. “I was in the arts guild and everything.”

“What did you paint?”

“Whatever I could,” you recall with a smile, a little amused by how shocked Astarion seems to be at the idea. But mostly portraits. You know what nobles are like. It’s where all the coin is.”

He frowns a little. “In that case, it’s a sheer  _ miracle  _ that we never crossed paths,” he explains, his tone turning grim.

“I don’t think we really ran in the same circles of nobility--”

“Believe me,” he says, interjecting into your attempt at assurance. “Cazador made sure to keep his --  _ my -- _ fingers in as many pies as he could. ...So to speak.” He smirks a little at his innuendo, but continues. “Regardless, though, Cazador  _ loved _ to sit for a portrait. He considered himself quite the patron -- but he had a  _ terrible  _ habit of chewing on his artists when they were done.” He pauses. “Did you have a patron?”

“Me?” You ask. “No, not officially. Being a Tiefling’s patron isn’t…” you take a second to put it politely. “It’s still…”

“A taboo?” he suggests.

You nod. “Yeah. That.” You stare off for a second, thinking back to Baldur’s Gate. It’s not as bad as other places, sure, but there’s a lingering reluctance from high society, especially. “I had specific families who’d commission me regularly, but none of them willing to become a full patron.” You shrug, trying to dismiss the notion, not wanting to linger on it. “Plenty of work, though. Can’t complain.”

You catch a fleeting look of something soft on Astarion’s face, but it’s gone in a flash, replaced with a playfully raised eyebrow as he reaches forward for your jar of wine, deciding to help himself. “I was worried it was for lack of talent.”

“Oh no,” you laugh. “I’m very good.” You find yourself hesitating for a moment, wondering if it’s too much to ask him -- but the wine you’ve drank prevails. “If we ever go back to Baldur’s Gate, I can show you my work.”

“Yes, Baldur’s Gate,” Astarion exhales, so low that it’s almost under his breath. He takes a sip of your wine, an unmistakable hint of a frown at the inner corners of his eyebrows, before his face resets. “Still,” he begins, his voice notably louder, like he’s trying to drown out a thought, “I’m genuinely surprised that I’ve never even  _ heard  _ of you before.”

“It’s not like I was being invited to parties.” You pause, a memory flashing in your mind. “...Well, there was  _ one,” _ you begin. 

He smiles. “Go on.”

“One of the Gists,” you recall, smiling a little to yourself, remembering the spectacle. “Edwick. He had a big party to unveil his new portrait and made a point of having me there.” You laugh to yourself. “I think he wanted to stick it to the other nobility, honestly.”

“Edwick always  _ has _ been a bit of an eccentric.” He tilts his head again, handing you the bottle of wine, quickly studying you. “We even have nobility in common -- both for scandalous reasons, too. Fascinating.” He leans his elbow on the surface of the table, inspecting his nails as he speaks. “Luckily for you, I wasn’t invited to that party. Paramours rarely are.” His eyes flicker to you, a knowing look in them, and it immediately makes you feel a bit jarred. “If I  _ had _ been, though…” Astarion pauses, this time for the drama of it. “Well, best not to linger on roads not taken, I suppose.”

“Necks not bitten, more like it,” you joke. 

He shifts a little, smiling at your quip in approval. “No need to be so  _ crass _ . My, my.”

“Anyway,” you say, waving one hand and lifting the wine to your lips with the other, taking a cue from him and completely ignoring your cup now. You take a mouthful before lowering it back to the table. “You’re assuming it would have worked on me.”

Astarion openly laughs at this, and you’re unsure if he genuinely thinks what you said was funny or if he’s just doing it to mock you. It could be both, really, knowing him. “I admire your confidence, I really do.” He smirks. “But I would have rendered you putty in my hands, I’m afraid. I had it down to a science.” You don’t respond, staring at him instead, and his eyes almost glow with the promise of challenge. “What?” He asks, his voice turning into that flirtatious purr that makes the hairs on the back of your neck tingle. “Don’t believe me?”

“I’m not convinced,” you say, doubling down, your own smile matching his. 

“Oh,  _ darling,” _ he half-laughs, reaching out to your empty cup and taking it in one hand. “You wouldn’t  _ need  _ convincing because you wouldn’t even notice. He fills your cup from the jug before handing it back to you. His eyes lock to yours, and his fingers brush against yours as you take the cup from him -- although his touch lingers a little too long for it to be accidental. You almost call him out on it, but he gets in first. “I don’t think I’ve told you this before, but you have the most  _ enchanting  _ hair. However do you manage that? Some kind of magic?”

Unexpected, but nice to hear, either way. You subconsciously find yourself using your free hand to feel at a lock that’s sitting over your shoulder. “No, just something I bought in the grove. It was pretty dirty after the--” your words seize up in your throat as he leans over, gently taking the same lock in his fingers and bringing it to his face, taking in the scent. 

“Divine,” he muses, closing his eyes for a second as he, apparently, savours it. They open again, catching your gaze. “Gardenias. It suits you.”

Astarion takes another second to study your face closely, and for a second his eyes flicker to your lips. It’s a slip, but one full of purpose. It’s deliberate, and you absolutely notice. You swallow your saliva a little too loudly, a shiver running down your spine before he releases the hair from his fingers and leans back into his seat. You quickly drink from your cup, eyes fixed to him, like you need the wine to survive all of a sudden. “Is…” you clear your throat, trying to regain the little composure you have left. “Is that how you’d do it?” You ask.

“Partially,” he says dismissively, shrugging. “Shame we don’t have any food.  _ Usually _ I’d follow that up by hand feeding you some  _ sublime _ dessert that you simply  _ have _ to try…” he looks around the table. “For the purpose of demonstration, though, I suppose I’ll need to skip a few steps…” He keeps looking around, twisting in his seat as he does so. He almost seems a little flustered -- is this… is he excited about this? He freezes in place for a second, struck by a thought, and his smirk returns. “Tell me, do you  _ only _ paint portraits of nobles?” He asks, his casual demeanor returning. You shake your head and he nods, the look in his eyes like he’s been listening to you and only you for  _ hours. _ “What about still lifes?  _ Nudes?” _

You’re unable to help yourself, laughing, throwing your hand over your mouth to stop yourself spitting wine everywhere, taken by how quickly he got to the point. “No,” you mumble, swallowing your wine and wiping your mouth. “Not really nu--”

“Maybe you just need the right model,” he suggests. “I’ve been told I cut quite the figure. Maybe you can paint  _ me,” _ There’s a flirtatious tone to the laugh that trails onto the end of his sentence, and even though you  _ know _ what he’s doing… it’s still quite charming. “Better yet -- I’ve always wanted to learn to paint, and I  _ do _ so love to explore dramatic shapes and curves. Perhaps we can swap. You paint me,” he leans in again, a hand resting on your hip, lips so close to your ear that you can feel his breath as he whispers, “and then  _ I _ paint  _ you.” _

His touch lingers at your hip, before his free hand comes to your chin, lifting it up. He studies your face, his smile soft, but his eyes intent. “Now, if we were really at some kind of high society soiree, this is where I’d tell you everyone else’s secrets to establish trust. Who knows?” He continues, a thumb running deliberately over your lower lip, “perhaps I’d ask you to dance before sneaking you away to a quiet spot,” he muses, his voice turning into a whisper, his mouth dangerously close to yours. “Some quiet guest room, or the Lord’s study, or even the larder. Somewhere away from prying eyes, so that I could do  _ this… _ ”

You close your eyes, fully expecting a kiss, but his hands suddenly grip at your waist and before you can find your bearings, he lifts you up from your seat and onto the surface of the stone table, knocking your book to the floor as you let out a squeal of surprise, your legs hanging off the edge, Astarion standing between them. “Usually, in this scenario, my dear little victim would be wearing skirts for the occasion,” he explains, his fingers finding the ties of your leggings and unlacing them. “But we’re just going to have to suspend disbelief for a moment, aren’t we?” He asks, pausing to look down at your feet. “Be a dear and kick those off for me, will you? The quicker we get all this out of the way, the quicker we can go back to pretending you’re a virginal debutante.”

Not willing to risk shattering the illusion too much, you kick off your boots, both of them hitting the floor with a thud. Astarion grabs onto the waistbands of both your leggings and your small clothes, and pulls them free of your body in one swift and clearly well-practiced movement, leaving you completely naked from the waist down. 

“Now, around  _ this _ time,” he begins, discarding your clothes on the floor, his fingers quickling moving up the closures of your doublet, “is when the excuses start.  _ “Oh, but I’m betrothed!” “What about my husband?” “But I’m a Tormtar, and we aren’t married.”  _ Vampire spawn or not, I’m a consummate gentleman and stop if I’m told to,” he pauses, opening the last closure of your doublet, opening it to expose your undershirt, “but it very,” he lifts your undershirt over your breasts, exposing them to the air as he closes the gap between you,  _ “very  _ rarely comes to that.” Your parted lips brush against his, waiting for him to seize the moment and kiss you, paralized by the way he’s all but purring his words. One of his hands settles on your bare thighs, the other cupping your breast softly, his thumb running over your nipple. “At least once they realise what I’m about to do, anyway.” Your foreheads are touching, and you can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t kissed you yet. It’s all you want -- and he probably knows this. You’re tempted to speak, to ask what he means… and then he says it.

“Be a good girl and lie back for me.”

You feel like your heart has stopped for a quick second, a hot flash roaring through you, the way his voice sounds when he says it driving something into your chest that runs down between your legs like an electrical shock. He uses the hand on your breast to gently push you back, guiding you down until you’re mostly laid down -- he seems satisfied with you leaning up on your forearms to try and see what’s happening. 

Astarion runs his hand from your breast all the way down your torso, savoring the feel, the softness in some places and firmness in others, coming to a stop on your other thigh. He gently pushes your legs a little further apart, and that hot feeling washes over you again when you notice the way he’s looking at what’s between them. It’s like he’s sizing up a meal, a challenge -- prey. And then, giving the rest of you a final and appreciative glance, he sits back down in his seat, scoots forward, and begins.

He starts at the insides of your thighs, kissing along the left, carefully and very lightly dragging his nails down the right, intermittently swapping sides. As he nears closer and closer to his destination, you feel the hard, cold enamel of his teeth, barely grazing over the delicate skin of your inner thighs. You anticipate a bite -- you  _ desire _ it -- but he stops himself, pulling his mouth away for a second. “Entrée before main,” he quietly jokes, sounding almost breathless. Gods, he sounds as desperate as you feel right now.

It starts as a kiss, one so soft and gentle that it’s closer to a whisper -- but as soon as you gasp at the feeling, he seemingly dives right in, and --  _ wooooooooow. _ You expect to moan, as you usually do, but something about the 200 years of experience between your thighs leaves you unable to do anything but gasp and wriggle as you instinctively reach down and lace your fingers into his hair. You’ve received this before from others, of course, but never like  _ this, _ never with this much expertise. He loops his hands down and under your thighs, gripping at your hips to try and keep you steady. Gods, it’s like you’re paralysed, only able to writhe about and choke on your own pleasure. 

His methods are mixed at first, his tongue and lips exploring all different parts of you, both above and beneath the surface, trying and testing different things in different spots to see what draws a reaction out of you. He swirls the tip of his tongue around your clit and you gasp, but the flat of his tongue makes your back arch. Ironically, it’s like you’re trying to wiggle away from it, like you’re trying to escape the vulnerability to come, but his grip won’t let that happen, his fingertips digging into the soft flesh cushioning your hips and waist.

And then, like an arrow splitting you in half through the middle, you give a yelp as the unmistakable sensation of suction makes your legs tremble and your entire body jerk upwards. Astarion grunts, which you feel against you, and one hand moves from your hip and reaches up to squeeze your breast. He pulls away for a moment, giving you a brief second of mercy, mumbling “wriggly little pup, aren’t you?” before returning. 

“I ca-- I ca--” You’re struggling to get the words out. Every time you try, your throat seizes up, about four different sounds trying to get out at the same time. “I caaaaan’t heeeeeelp iiiiiiit,” you finally manage to whine, your back arching. He chuckles, the vibrations drawing a whimper out of you, your hand gripping his hair now. If the back of your head was any more pressed into the table beneath you, the stone might crack. The suction begins to ebb back and forth, pulsating, and if there was  _ any _ hope of you being quiet, it’s gone. Your cries are weak, breathy, desperate. Once, Astarion told you that some people refer to the moment of climax as  _ the little death, _ and you totally get it now, because anyone who overheard you right now might genuinely think that you’re on the edge of dying. Unable to help whatever it happening to your body, your legs instinctively squeeze either side of his head, both of your hands clutching at his head, and as you hold your breath and wait---

He stops.

Your eyes open, confused (and concerned, actually,) and when you look down to see what’s happening, he’s pulled back from you completely, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He smirks, keeping his eyes trained on yours. This is a  _ thing,  _ isn’t it? That little shi-- “Now that you’re all worked up,” he purrs, his other hand resting on the inside of your thigh, “this is where I’d invite you back to Cazador’s estate for the main event.” He pauses, his smirk shifting to a grin. “A little death, so to speak. ...Figuratively and literally.” There it is again. He’s so proud of that one. He plants another few kisses on the inside of your thigh, next to where his hand rests, and the cold air against you makes you realise how wet you are -- soaked, actually. You’ve definitely dripped onto the table. “Seeing as I have no intention of sharing you, however,” he says, his breath against your thigh making you shudder a little, “you’ll have to indulge me with something a little… off script.” 

The bite is sudden, but the sensitivity that comes with laying his teeth into your inner thigh makes it sting more than usual, makes it feel like it’s deeper, like he’s about to pull his head away and rip the flesh open. He doesn’t, though -- in fact, he feels like he’s being quite gentle, his free hand moving to feel between your legs again. His thumb takes position at the top, carefully pressing against your clit, slowly rubbing in a circle as he drinks. You worry for a moment that losing blood from your lower half might lessen feeling, but it surprisingly doesn’t. If anything, the closeness of the nerves makes everything seem more sensitive, and as he drinks your brain goes a little fuzzy and you can get out of your head and---  _ ohhhhhhh~ _

You lay back, enjoying the sensations for as long as your body will allow -- the floaty feeling in your limbs, the tingling sensation that starts at the back of your head and runs down your neck, the warmth, the waves of pleasure coming from between your legs. You hold onto it for as long as you can, enjoying it as much as your body can stand it, until you finally reach down and smooth your hand over his head again, the sound of your pulse throbbing in your ears a warning that you’re nearing the point of what your body can handle. “Astarion,” you whimper, hoping he can hear you, unsure if you can muster much else. 

He pulls away, gasping for breath a little, and wipes his mouth again, the unmistakable smear of blood on the back of his hand. He looks at you and, for the first time since you’ve gotten to know him, you can’t pin his expression. It’s different. Soft. Concentrated. Almost a smile but not quite, like he’s stunned. Whatever it is, though, elicits a surprise -- a pang of something in your chest, a twinkle of something that you don’t think you’re supposed to feel. And then, with an apparent sense of urgency, he dives back to the space between your legs, returning to where he was before he fed. Your back arches so quickly and sharply that it’s a wonder you don’t throw it out, and the way you grab at his hair seems to only encourage him.

His hand slips under his chin, and before you can really grasp what he’s doing, you feel two of his fingers slipping inside you. You’re so wet that there’s no need to start with the one, apparently, and as he sucks at your clit, he starts to slowly and very,  _ very _ precisely pump his fingers in and out. Your whimpers and gasps translate into full cries, every breath passing through your throat as an uncontrolled vocalisation that echoes off the high ceilings and stone walls of the temple. Your hips instinctively begin to rock to meet his fingers, your arched back pressing yourself further into his mouth as your cries get louder and longer, your tail subconsciously reaching behind him and pushing at the back of his head to try and bring him as close as possible. 

You try to say his name, to curse, anything, but it all comes out as a garbled mess as you completely lose yourself in what he’s doing, tipping over the edge with so much force that you feel like every last inch of your lungs is emptied of air, your horns knocking almost violently against the stone you lay on, the tapping noise almost as loud as your voice. Your legs quiver, you can feel yourself tensing and squeezing around his fingers, but most of all -- you can feel his eyes on you. He’s watching your undoing carefully, taking it all in. Enjoying it, savouring it. 

The come down is dizzying, an ache blooming through your pelvis, suddenly making you aware of how hard you must have been tensing. Your thigh stings --  _ burns -- _ and there’s a familiar bruised feeling around the base of your horns that comes with knocking them a little  _ too _ hard. Your tail flops down, completely relaxed, hanging limp over the edge of the table. Your legs feel like jelly, like you’ve been climbing a mountain, and the back of your head is throbbing from pressing against the stone. But  _ that? _ Completely worth it.

He withdraws his fingers, pulling away, and you honestly don’t notice until he gives a hiss of air from between his teeth. “I’m afraid that’s going to leave a bruise,” he says, inspecting the bite he’s left on your inner-thigh. You can’t really see it from where you lay, but if it looks how it feels? It’s probably pretty bad. “I’d apologise, but, well…” he looks to you, grinning, “pain and pleasure are less like cousins and more like siblings, aren’t they?” He leans in, carefully kissing the stinging spot. “A little forget-me-not.” 

You expect him to start undressing himself, but to your surprise, he doesn’t. Instead, he stands up, moving to collect your clothes from the floor. “Aren’t you--” you stop as you sit up, the pain in your pelvis more apparent than it was laying down, making you wince.

“Going to have a turn?” He suggests, his voice stressing the word ‘turn,’ mocking the phrase, clearly trying to sound like some kind of barbarian in saying it. “As generous an offer as that is,” Astarion brings you your clothes, setting them next to you on the table, “and as much as I love to indulge in your very,  _ very _ distinct pleasures,” he reaches out and brushes a stray lock of your hair away from your face, tucking it back behind your horn, “watching you unravel like  _ that _ was more than my fill for the evening. This was a treat for  _ you.” _ And then, much to your surprise, he leans in and gently, tenderly, kisses your forehead, right between your horns. It’s… nice.

And as quickly as you felt this strange tenderness, this warmth, it’s gone, Astarion’s usual flirtatious (bordering on sinister) demeanor returning as he pulls away, clearing his throat. You wonder if he’s trying to recover, or if you’re reading too into it. “You’ve been in a  _ terrible _ mood, after all. It’s the least I could do for the collective good.” His head does that little wobble thing it does when he’s making fun of you, and your face drops. “Now, get dressed and let’s get back to camp before someone comes looking for you and catches you…” he pauses, waving his hand about as he thinks. “...Travelling light.”

He steps away, turning to pick your book up off the floor, distracting himself with it and allowing you space to dress. Taking the brief opportunity for privacy, you raise your fingers to the spot between your horns where he kissed you. 

Somehow, that was the best part.


	6. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to learn a lot about rope for this one  
> we all grew from this experience
> 
> thanks so much for the suggestions and requests! Keep them coming, please! Next one might be a little more soppy but I think it's time for some soft Astarion after this ifidosaysomyself

“If the bone’s knit, what’s the problem?” You ask the Druid, Gale laying on a bed in the infirmary that  _ used _ to belong to Nettie… before the incident, anyway… 

The elf knits her brow, gesturing to Gale’s leg, which is covered in bandages. “Whatever he’s broken it on had poison bramble on it,” she explains as you look at Gale, who’s offering you a sheepish smile. “It’s not enough to kill him, but I can’t let him go until I know it’s out of his system.”

“Not enough to kill me?” he asks, attempting to sit up. “Well, that’s the best I could ask for, all things--”

“The  _ diarrhea  _ if it’s untreated, however,” she warns, raising an eyebrow at him, her tone scolding him as though he were a child. 

Defeated, Gale lays back down.  _ “Ah.” _ His acceptance is swift.

Satisfied that he isn’t going to try and leave, the healer turns her attention back to you, her arms crossed. “Antidote takes two days with an infection like his. Should be good as new by then, but we’ve got to keep an eye on him.”

“Two days?” You repeat, a quick puff of hair forcing itself from you, your eyes closing in thought. Lae’zel is going to have a conniption if you tell her things are going to take any longer. You have no choice, though. “Right. Are we ok to stay in the grove?” You ask her.

She nods. “Of course. Now that the Tieflings have moved along, you can sleep wherever you can find a bedroll.” The elf doesn’t exactly sound as though she cares much, which is a bit unusual for a Druid, given how uptight the rest can get -- but it’s then that you notice she’s a little distracted.

“Everything okay?” You ask.

“Fine. Just fine.”

She’s frowning, arms crossed, not looking at you  _ or  _ Gale specifically, but continually glancing to the door. “Do you need to go get something?” You ask.

The healer’s shoulder’s drop. “My apprentice was meant to be here by now,” she admits, her tone grated. “And I’m absolutely  _ starving. _ Are you able to watch him for me until she gets here?” She asks. “You don’t have to do anything, just make sure his innards don’t start exploding out of him.”

You frown. “...And if they do?”

“Come and find me, preferably screaming and shouting,” she says with a shrug. “Should be fine, though.”

The healer doesn’t really give you an option, giving you a polite nod before excusing herself. You consider calling out to her, telling her to wait, but it’s awkward, and Gale pipes up before you can argue. “You don’t have to stay here, you know,” he says.

“Yes I do. She said if--”

“I mean in the grove,” he cuts in. “Don’t let me keep you waiting. I can catch up.”

You shake your head, rolling your eyes a little. “No, don’t be stupid.”

“I’m being no such thing,” he argues, sitting up, wincing as his leg moves a little. “Time is, as I’m sure Lae’Zel will tell you, of the essence. If the five of you get a head start into the Underdark, I can easily catch up with you with but a small contingency system.”

“Contingency system?” You ask. Your mind flashes back to the time he was downed by a Gnoll, your stomach dropping at the idea of having to do anything remotely similar to his little ‘failsafe’ ever again. 

“A simple system of regular sigil markings and spells along your way,” he says this as if anything he ever suggests to you is ‘simple.’ “Using these, I can harness the power of the weave around a sigil map of sorts to quickly--”

“Gale,” you cut in, “we aren’t leaving you behind.”

He frowns, although it’s not an upset one, it’s one full of thought. “If you’re not comfortable with that system, I can always just follow the path of destruction--”

“We  _ aren’t _ leaving you behind,” you repeat, your voice firm, eyes locking onto his. “We aren’t leaving anyone behind.”

His frown softens, and he waits, like he’s waiting for you to follow up with something. But you don’t. There’s nothing else to add, really. The frown turns into a little smile, delicate, just appearing at the corners. “We?” he asks. “Or  _ you?” _

You shift uncomfortably. It’s an innocent call out, and he doesn’t mean harm by it, of course, but something about it gets to you a little. “Does it matter?” You ask.

He shakes his head. “I suppose it doesn’t. For what it’s worth -- I wouldn’t leave you behind, either, if our roles were reversed.”

“And you think the others would?”

Gale shrugs. “That, my friend, depends on who’s making the call.”

“What’s your assessment, then?” You ask him, curious. “Really, I want to know what you think.” He watches you carefully, a look of relief in his eyes when you smile, signalling that this is just friendly conversation -- some kind of interrogation. 

He thinks it over for a moment. “Well, I think we both know what Lae’zel would do,” he begins, nodding at his own assessment. “Or, rather,  _ may _ do depending on how you go about breaking the news.” He’s right about this. Telling Lae’zel that you’ll be waiting another two days is… well, you’re dreading her reaction. “Shadowheart, ever mysterious, is hard to read. I don’t think she’d willingly wait for  _ me  _ if it were up to her, but  _ you?” _ He shrugs. “I’ve seen you two work your way through a few bottles of wine before, and if I’ve observed correctly, she thinks you  _ quite  _ the confidant... even if it’s begrudgingly. You’ve done quite the number on Wyll, it would seem -- how much of that is to do with your distant resemblance to your half-succubus cousins, we’ll never know -- but we  _ do _ know that he’d follow you to the hells if you sweetened your words enough.” You laugh at this, although you make a point of wincing at the implication. “...And that brings us to Astarion…” 

Gale’s demeanor changes a little, his jaw tensing, the smile easing away. He’s searching for words, thinking carefully. It dawns on you as he fails to finish his appraisals that he hasn’t found something to say because… he has  _ nothing _ to say. “You don’t think he’d wait?” You ask.

“Possibly,” he admits, shrugging, “but it’s…” Gale hesitates again, looking away, staring ahead -- not at anything particular. “You’ve placed a great deal of trust in me, as I have you,” he says, his words slower than usual, his volume dipping a little as he chooses the correct words. “Would you, perhaps, be open to a brief moment of honesty?”

Suddenly feeling very uneasy, you nod slowly. You don’t know where this is going -- but you definitely have an  _ idea. _

“Far as I wish to be from someone who passes judgement on matters of the heart, my own experiences in that field make me quite the expert in the area of romantic disadvantage. Astarion is…” he pauses again, shifting a little. He seems as uncomfortable as you. “I don’t think I need to remind you what an enigma he is. Hard to read, hard to trust… and yet? You seem to trust him implicitly.”

“It works both ways,” you explain quietly, not wanting to seem too defensive, very aware that this isn’t an attempt at an attack.

“Of course,” he nods, something warm to his voice. “The basis of any relationship, of course. But… trust doesn’t necessarily mean devotion. I just worry, sometimes, that you’re placing your trust in someone who sees it as a means to an end rather than a gift.” Gale pauses, his eyes locking with yours for a second. “I apologise,” he says quickly. “That sounded terrible.”

“No,” you say with a shake of your head. “I… I can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind before.” You look downwards at your hands, fidgeting with them in your lap. “But I still trust him,” you add.

He nods. “I assumed as much, given all the little love bites. You never worry that he’ll…?” He trails off, trying to leave what he means unspoken, probably because he can’t find a way to say it politely. He’s referring to the possibility of Astarion going too far, fully draining you, killing you. It’s a fair concern to have. If that happens, the group is down two -- you from being drained, and Astarion from either fleeing or being killed by one of the others. 

You’d be lying to yourself if you pretended that it had never weighed on you a little. There’s something about Astarion that implies even with his unadulterated loyalty, his own self-interests will always come before you. Who could blame him, given his past? It’s mostly harmless, after all, but the possibility is always there that, one day… 

Your response is decisive, firm. “No. He’d never hurt me.” You pause. “Physically, anyway.”

“He wouldn’t hurt you of his  _ own will,” _ Gale adds, as though meaning to correct you. He smiles -- maybe it’s something he’s intended as a joke, a friendly jab, the way close friends tease each other.

This absolutely does  _ not _ humour you. “That’s not fair.” You lock eyes with Gale, your voice firm. “I trust him, and I mean it.”

The temperature of the room seems to drop a few degrees, the entire mood becoming uncomfortable. “You’re right,” he exhales, his eyes avoiding yours. “It wasn’t.” Gale takes a deep breath, trying to recenter himself after tussling with embarrassment. He handles his pride better than Astarion, that’s for sure. Astarion would have stormed off, or argued the point, or tried to change the subject and minimize whatever he’d said -- Gale, at least, accepts it. “I apologise. I--” he cuts himself off. “While my confidence in your self preservation is unshaken, I’m afraid that I still find myself worried.” He smiles, and you can see right through it -- it’s not a genuine one. It’s an act of self-correction, one to try and soothe you. “Never you mind that, though! I believe I’ve a case of the old ‘internal bias due to life experiences.’” He clears his throat. “You know, I think Lae’zel might be a touch less enraged by the news of my apparent incapacitation if you come up with a distraction.” He’s changing the subject, and, honestly? It’s incredibly welcome.

“What would you suggest?” You ask.

Gale looks relieved that you’ve bit, his jaw softening a little. “One of the Druids attending me was talking about some Gnolls that have been causing trouble. Maybe the violence will keep our Astral friend satiated.”

As you continue discussing ways to keep Lae’zel from snapping, unbeknownst to you, a vampire lurks on the other size of the stone-archway that leads to the healer’s quarters. Staying out of sight, he pushes off the wall, smiling to himself. While he’d originally sought you out of boredom, this declaration of trust has filled Astarion’s mind with all kinds of ideas -- and now he finds himself filled with devilishly exciting purpose for his currently idle hands.

* * *

“I want to tie you up.”

“You want to  _ what?” _ You ask, staring at Astarion, a little shocked. Even for him, this is… up front. 

“I want to tie you up,” he repeats, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world to ask of you. When he’d led you into the closed-off cave that used to serve as Zevlor’s quarters, you’d figured this was  _ probably _ a sex thing, even though he’d promised he just wanted to ‘show you your sleeping quarters,’ but as you eye the ropes, there’s a sense of unease that settles in your stomach. “Consider it a… trust exercise.”

You exhale, eyes fixed on the ropes, all bundled up neatly, sitting on the abandoned table that had once served as a desk. Trust exercise. Sure. “I don’t know…”

“Why not?” he asks. “Knowing you the way I do, you’ll enjoy it. I  _ assure  _ you.” You frown, causing him to frown in turn. “Or is it something else?” He asks. 

“It’s just…” you pause, crossing your arms. “Are we talking about tying my wrists to something, or…?”

“A little more than that,” the way he says this sounds like an admission. “If it’s safety you’re worried about, I assure you, I’m quite well practiced.” He reaches out and taps a knife that sits beside the ropes. “Just say the word and they come off.” There’s a long pause, and apparently your hesitance is written across your face. “I promise.” His voice dips as he says this, the bravado gone, like he’s trying to reassure you. 

You find yourself chewing on the inside of your lip. On one hand, something about this is making you kind of uneasy. On the other… that feeling is kind of exciting, isn’t it? Like everything else you’ve done with Astarion, there’s a thrill to stepping into the unknown. “Why, though?” You ask. “What brought this on?”

He steps towards you, his fingers grazing the length of your jaw as he cups your face. “I was just thinking about how pretty you’d look all wrapped up for me like a present,” it comes out like a purr, and if a sound had a feeling, it would be pure velvet. “And I do  _ so _ know how you just like to…” he studies your face for a moment. Appraising it. Taking it in.  _ “...Let go.” _

You find yourself leaning into his touch as he closes the gap, his lips finding yours, his free hand finding the spot on your hip it loves so much. You’d be lying to yourself if you said the thought isn’t appealing, and it’s not like it’s something you’ve never  _ heard _ of. You’re from Baldur’s Gate, after all. You’ve read books, seen illustrations… it’s not something that’s exactly made your bucket list, but it’s not something you’ve given all that much thought to, either. It doesn’t sound awful, and you’ll admit that you’ve enjoyed everything else that you’ve tried with Astarion. “Will it hurt?” you ask. 

“No.” He smirks, fingers beginning to creep up the front of your doublet, opening the closures, “...Unless you  _ want _ it to.” Closures opened, he kisses you again, pushing the doublet back and off your shoulders. “Let’s see how we go, shall we?”

You humm in agreement, kissing him again as he works on the ties of your leggings. You expect a chill from standing there in your undershirt, but it’s minimal, and you notice a fire behind him. He really has planned this out, hasn’t he? The warm fire, the candles, the space away from Shadowheart’s penchant for eavesdropping...

“Boots,” he says, bringing you back to reality, prompting you to kick them off. Soon, you’re standing before him in your smallclothes, watching as he pulls back, looking you up and down, thinking something over. “...No, this needs to go,” he announces, tugging at the bottom of your undershirt. You raise your arms and Astarion pulls it up and over your head, baring your chest. “That’s better,” he exhales, his eyes moving directly to your breasts as you lower your arms back down. “Much better.” He takes another moment to eye you before moving to the table, taking the longest bundle of rope. “Yes, I think I know exactly what to do with you…” a pause as his eyes flicker back to you. “Those, too,” he points to your smallclothes. “I’ll need…” He trails off. “...They’ll get in the way later.”

You  _ want _ him to elaborate, but knowing Astarion? He won’t, even if you ask. You oblige him, stepping out of the last of your smallclothes, standing before him completely naked. He’s seen you naked so many times now that you’ve lost count, but something about this time is making you feel especially exposed. Maybe it’s because he’s still totally dressed. Maybe it’s because you’re in a space that isn’t your tent. Maybe it’s the way he keeps looking at you like he’s about to completely devour you. Whatever it is, it’s immensely clear that he has something specific planned for you, and it almost seems like he’s more excited about it than you are.

“Hair up,” he says, unwrapping the bundle of rope, eyes flicking between the bundle and watching you wrap it up in the quickest bun you’ve ever had, wrapping the hair around itself in lieu of having a tie on hand. It’ll hold for as long as he needs, you hope. Satisfied your hair is out of the way, he begins, folding the length of rope at it’s halfway point and hanging it over your shoulders, the half-point at the back of your neck. He steps behind you, pulling on the rope at the back of your neck, loosening it and… doing something. You feel something round sitting between your shoulder blades when he’s finished. A knot. “Now,” he begins, moving back to the front of you, his fingers pulling the rope into a knot between your collarbones. “This is all about trust,” he explains, looping the length of the rope through the knot. “You trust me to stop if you tell me to, to not harm you, to make you feel good,” he continues, his voice growling a little on the word ‘ _ good’  _ as he secures the knot. “And I trust  _ you _ to tell me if something doesn’t feel right. Is that clear?” He asks. You nod, noting that this rope is unusually soft. You wonder what it’s made of. 

His fingers continue to deftly work away, tying knots long the length of rope, getting lower and lower as he goes. “What’s most important, though,” he adds, his voice quiet as his fingers come to a stop between your legs, his fingertips grazing along the surface before very gently pressing into your ---  _ oh! _ “Is that you trust me enough to give in.” He smirks, tying a knot in the rope, levelled with where he just touched. “To lose yourself. To…” he pauses as he reaches down and loops the length of rope between your legs, bringing it back up on the other side and  _ by the gods it is sitting between your ass cheeks. _ “To totally surrender.” You find yourself catching your breath a little at this, feeling the way the rope running down the front of your body pulls against your skin as he begins on the back. He steps behind you and leans in, bringing the length of rope to the knot at the back of your neck, using the opportunity to whisper into your ear as he loops it through. “Let me be the guiding hand that shows you what you  _ need.” _

He then separates the two lengths, beginning the process of looping them around each side of you, threading them through the rope at the front. It’s an embrace every single time he does it. “Not too tight?” he asks once he’s about half way done. 

“No.”

“Good.” He continues, the rope always tight enough to be present in your mind, but never tight enough to be uncomfortable. Finally, he ties a final knot in the back, stepping away. “Turn around,” he orders, his smirk turning into a bloom when you turn to face him. It’s more akin to a full body harness than what you’d expected, the rope above and below your breasts doing…  _ something _ for you. But as you move, you notice the knot --  _ that _ knot, the one between your legs -- and its purpose becomes entirely clear. “Sublime,” he says, although you’re not sure if he’s referring to his handy work or how you look in it. “How does it feel?” he asks.

You wiggle a little, testing the tension of the ropes. “...Good, actually.” It’s kind of like being held, but all over. 

“Good.” Astarion nods, moving back to the table, taking another bundle of rope. “How do you feel about stepping it up a notch?” He asks. “Remembering what I said about trust."

You blink. “You can do  _ more?” _

Astarion chuckles, smirking, unwrapping the new bundle of rope. “Darling, there’s no  _ end _ to the things I could do to you!” He pauses, again looking you over. The way he’s looking at you is almost like how you’d look at a canvas as you paint. “I’m thinking something with your arms. How does that sound to you?”

Initially, you’d had your hesitations about this whole thing, but the feeling of the ropes and the way Astarion is looking at you is… doing it for you.  _ Really _ doing it for you. You’re not surprised, but he’s been right so far. “Sure,” you say with a nod. “Why not?”

He’s all but beams at your agreement, gently tapping the surface of the stone table with the palm of his hands. “Up you get, then,” he says. Noticing your confusion, he pauses. “It’ll be worth the physical exertion. I  _ assure _ you.” Choosing to ignore his little jab at your reluctance, you climb up on the table, the ropes digging into you a little with the movement. “On your knees, too,” he adds. It makes you raise an eyebrow, but when you feel that specific knot grind between your legs, you quickly understand his reasoning, biting your lip a little to try and stop yourself from giving him a victory  _ too _ quickly. Your legs bent under you, you sit on the surface of the table, your back to him, a purr of approval escaping his throat. You do all you can to stop yourself from grinding against the knot.

He takes a moment before you feel him take your left arm in one hand, looping something over it, before repeating it with the other. He then slides the two loops of rope all the way up your arms, looping them over your shoulders, kind of like a backpack. He does…  _ something, _ you can’t tell what, and the loops tighten just enough to feel firm. And then, there’s a second set of loops… then a third, a fourth, and a fifth… and as he adds more and more, you realise they’re holding your arms behind you, bringing them together.  _ Binding _ them. “Remember what I said about telling me if something doesn’t feel  _ good, _ ” he reiterates. It feels fine, however. Better than fine. As you feel your muscles relax into the hold of the ropes, it feels pretty good. 

He finishes tying off your arms before you feel his lips kiss one of your palms. “One more thing,” he says as he stands back up, coming around the table to the front. He takes the third and final bundle of rope, eagerly unravelling it. He loops it around the back of your neck, taking extra effort to clear your horns, before working away at knots and loops at the front. Unlike the other knots, the ones he ties this time stable, not tightening as he pulls against them. When he finishes, you immediately notice the remaining length of rope hanging from your neck. It’s a leash. You open your mouth to comment, but he beats you to it, leaning in and placing a kiss on your brow, in the space between your horns. “A pretty necklace for a pretty present.” Something about this makes your chest feel a little warm. It’s a simple, but pleasant praise to receive. 

Astarion then pulls up a chair, reaching out and taking a bottle of wine and cup that had been sitting on the end of the table before taking a seat. He smiles, eyes on you as he opens the bottle and pours himself a glass. Once he sets the bottle back down, he leans back, bringing one leg up and resting the side of his ankle loosely on the knee of the other as he takes his first sip. 

You expect him to say or do something, to give you an order, talk about what he plans to do with you… something. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just sits there, drinking and watching you. As his eyes explore you, you realise how exposed you feel right now. “What are you…” you clear your throat, feeling a little nervous. “What now?”

“Now?” He asks, smirking, taking another drink. “I’m going to admire my work.”

You give a huff of a laugh at first, but it quickly becomes clear that he’s not joking. “...Seriously?” You ask.

Astarion nods, eyes roaming over you. “Of course. You didn’t think this was all about  _ you, _ did you?” He asks. There’s a pause. What do you even say to that? “You know, it’s funny, isn’t it, trust?” He says, his shoulders visibly relaxing back into his seat. “While you’re like this, I could do  _ anything _ I want to you.” He smirks, and his fangs come to the forefront of your mind. “I could drain you dry, I could rip your throat out with my teeth…” he stops for a second, clearly taken by a thought, “why, I could even see if the tadpole’s given me the power to turn you. I could try and make you a spawn of my own. Wouldn’t  _ that _ be a fun little development?” He lifts his cup to his lips, stopping just short of drinking. “Now  _ that _ would get right under Wyll’s skin, wouldn’t it? Having you come back to camp a few shades paler... Imagine,” he mutters into his wine before taking a mouthful, his eyes set on you. It’s like he’s looking for something, a flinch, unease,  _ fear… _ but he doesn’t get that, because you aren’t scared. 

...Not in a way you don’t enjoy, anyway.

He quietly nods to himself, rising from his seat, closing the distance between you. “And still, despite that, despite the badgering from your  _ friends, _ you still trust me completely.” He smiles at you, amusement across his face. “If I was anyone but me, I might question if that’s wise.” Before you can question what he means by ‘badgering from your friends,’ he lifts the cup to your lips, using his free hand to tilt your head upwards by the chin. “Our previous little chat about consent still stands,” he says, tipping the wine into your mouth, watching as you drink, his face softening a little, “but your trust is a dear gift to me, and I  _ do _ love the control you let me have.” He pauses, deliberately tilting it a little too far, the wine overflowing after than you can drink it, dribbling out of the corners of your lips, down your neck and down your chest. “You’ll have to forgive me if I want to exercise it. Just a little.”

Astarion withdraws the cup from your lips, replacing it with a kiss. He then works his way down your jaw, following the trail of the rogue wine, his tongue lapping up the excess once he reaches your neck. He takes his time around your collarbone, and you can feel him sucking at your skin. You expect to feel his teeth -- but you don’t. Instead, he lingers around your breast, taking his time, his tongue running over the nipple as his free hand takes some of the rope that makes up your ‘leash.’ He steps back, giving it a gentle tug. “Down you get,” he says. 

It’s a bit of a struggle to get down from the table without the use of your arms, but on recognising this, Astarion reaches out and places a guiding hand on the small of your back. It gives you something to balance against as you shift from your knees to your butt, scooting carefully off the table, feet planted firmly and safely on the floor. He quickly turns you around by the shoulders, bending you over the table, one hand diving between your legs and  _ feeling _ with expert fingers,  _ testing. _ “Hmmm…” he withdraws his fingers. “Acceptable, but not exceptional. Not  _ yet, _ anyway.” There’s another gentle tug on the leash, prompting you to turn back around to face him as he begins to sit back down. Seated, your leash still in one hand, he uses the other to point down and towards the floor in front of him. “Go on.”

Although this is absolutely doing something for you, you’re still just a little suspicious as you carefully come back to your knees, on the floor this time, between his legs. When you notice his free hand undoing the ties on his pants, however, the direction that things are taking becomes abundantly clear -- and a thought pops into your mind as you watch him free himself. “Um…” You hesitate, watching his eyebrow twitch upwards. “My… teeth?” You bare them, reminding him of the jagged edges, of the fangs behind your lips. Surprisingly, you’ve never actually had him in your mouth before, and this makes you more uneasy than the ropes that bind you. Sure, you’ve  _ done _ it before, but it’s been with other Tieflings with tougher skin, or humans with less substantial…  _ talents. _ You’ve never been game to try it on anyone actually endowed for fear of hurting them.

“Oh,  _ darling,” _ Astarion says, his face melting a little into something softer, yet still amused, almost like he pities your silly little self. He reaches out, taking your chin between his index finger and thumb, squeezing ever so gently, “when have I  _ ever _ wanted  _ safe?” _ He guides your head forward, releasing you as you follow his lead and very, very carefully begin. “Besides,” he exhales, relaxing back into the seat as you begin to run your tongue up the sides of him, stopping every now and then to kiss his shaft softly, reading the both of you for what’s to come.  _ “Mine _ have never bothered  _ you.” _

With a final kiss to the top, you take him in your mouth. You start with the head at first, running the flat of your tongue over it, eliciting a short hiss from him as he inhales. Remaining mindful of your fangs, trying to cushion the edges with your lips, you take more and more of him into your mouth, trying to lubricate the length of him. He exhales loudly, somewhere between a groan and a sigh, one of his hands coming to rest on the top of your head as you begin to bob it up and down, sucking gently at first. “Can’t say I’m…” he pauses to grunt as you employ your tongue to rub against his length as you work. “... _ surprised _ you’d be so… good at this,” Astarion remarks. “I--” he cuts himself off as you take the final length, holding your breath and trying to focus as you feel the tip of him push up against the back of your throat as he groans. The hand on your head moves to grip one of your horns, guiding your head up and down at the depth and speed he desires. On one hand, he’s in control -- he has you bound, naked, on your knees, a knot of rope grinding against your clit with every bob of your head, a hand gripping your horns and pushing your head back down before you’ve barely had time to regain your breath. On the other, you have very sharp teeth, and if he pushes too far… it’s a strange but surprisingly balanced dynamic. 

You increase your pace to match his lead, sucking harder, swirling your tongue around the tip before curling it around the shaft on descent. You glance upwards and catch a glimpse of him letting his head loll back, his eyes half closed, the smug smile wiped from his face as he groans. If the constant, tortuous grinding of the rope wasn’t making you  _ ache _ for him, this has done the job. “This is…  _ such _ a good use for that…  _ filthy _ little mouth of yours,” he sounds like he’s struggling to get through his sentence, and you glance upwards again only to find his eyes locked to you. The smugness is back, and he’s looking at you like prey as he continues to guide your head up and down. They way you like it. “The way you look with your lips wrapped around m--” he stumbles over the next part. You feel his thighs tense. He’s getting close. 

The hand on your horn holds you still for a moment before pulling your head back, unsheathing him from your mouth. You gasp for breath, a string of precum stretching from your lips to him for a moment before it breaks, leaving itself down your chin. You want to question him, but the leash around your neck tugs you up suddenly as he stands, pulling you to your feet with urgency. “Let’s get you where you belong,” he murmurs, seemingly to himself, turning you by the shoulders and leading you back to the table. 

Astarion pushes you forward, not bending you over the edge of the table, but forcing your chest against the table’s surface by pushing down between your shoulder blades. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” He asks, reaching down between your legs again, feeling, testing. He gives a laugh of triumph, apparently satisfied with your wetness, the knot of rope constantly pressing against your clit in this position. You feel his grip on your tail, and even though you can predict that he’s going to pull on it, it doesn’t lessen the sheer effect it has on you when he does so, forcing you to lift your ass higher in the air, forcing you to stand on your toes. “To be bent over, exposed, presented to me like the prize you are?” He laughs under his breath, the hand that was on your tail carefully smoothing over your ass. “Look at you. You’re  _ dripping! _ How depraved.” There’s a pause. “Beg.”

You blink. “What?”

“I said  _ beg.” _ He gently tugs on the rope at your lower back, causing the knot to grind into you harder. “It’s not hard. ...And considering your current position, I wouldn’t push too far right now, if our roles were reversed.”

For a moment, you consider ignoring his advice and getting bratty with him anyway. But you know better, and you know that Astarion will just cut you free and walk away from you if the mood strikes him. Besides, this complete subservience is… nice. It’s working for you. “Please?” You ask.

“Please _ what?” _ he asks, resting himself against you, reminding you of what you’re craving. “Let you go? Drink more wine? You’ll have to be more specific.”

You wine, trying to wiggle your hips and move against him, hoping to tempt him. When he pulls himself away from you, though, you let out a whine, relenting. “Please fuck me…”

“I’m sorry,” he laughs, “what was that? I could barely hear you.”

You exhale sharply. “Please fuck me!” you repeat, raising your voice, the sound of it echoing off the cave walls. Gods help you if anyone is snooping around. 

“Ah, I see,” he teases, returning himself to you, resting at your entrance. “That’s all you had to say.” You feel him lining himself up, pushing ever-so-slightly into you, just barely, in preparation.

“Good girl.”

Your stomach lurches as he enters you, something about the magic phrase making your entire lower body pulsate with desire. The slow beginnings of sex are only momentary -- you’re already so wet and wanting from the constant touch of rope that he’s met with next to no resistance. “So wet,” he remarks, his voice low, “so desperate.” He immediately begins fucking you at the pace he desires, the hand between your shoulder blades gripping onto the ropes that bind your arms. “Willing to let me do  _ anything _ I want to you. You let me feed from you, you let me tie you up…” a growl rumbles from the base of his throat. “What will I do with you next? Perhaps I’ll find someone to share you with. Let one of your admirers have a little taste before you get back on your knees and  _ beg _ me to fuck you properly, the way you  _ need _ to be fucked.” He grunts, caught off guard by the way you moan at the suggestion. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To make sure  _ everyone _ knows that  _ I’m _ the one who--” he stops to hold in something you’d compare to a moan, “that  _ I’m _ the one who knows how to put you in your place, that  _ I’m _ the one who makes you beg like the desperate,” he grabs a fist full of your hair and pulls back, forcing you to push your upper body off the table, your back arching to meet him half way as he growls into your ear,  _ “sinful _ little snack you are.” The position you’re in causes your bonds to strain against you, the hold of them making you feel held by incomprehensible, otherworldly touch as Astarion rests his fangs on the skin of your neck. A threat for most, a tease for you. 

The knot of the rope rubs at your clit with every thrust. You’re so close. You’re so close that it’s almost  _ painful,  _ and your moans turn into short whines, wordless pleas. 

“You’re close, aren’t you?” He purrs into your ear. “I wonder -- should I unwrap my present, or should I play with it a little more?” His free hand reaches around the front of you, brushing over your lower lip. “You’re practically drooling,” he chuckles, the hand drifting down to feel at your breast. “Completely depraved. No thoughts in that pretty head of yours, just pure lust!” Another laugh. “I can’t say I blame you -- but I’m afraid you’ll have to ask for permission to do that while I’m in charge.” His pace picks up, force increasing as he fucks your hips into the table. He’s doing this on purpose. “You wouldn’t  _ dare _ do so without my permission now, would you?” He asks. “Not an obedient little morsel like you.”

“P-Plu--” You try to speak, but he smacks a hand against the flesh of your ass and you yelp in surprise again, the way your body flinches in response rubbing against the knot, bringing you desperately close to the edge. 

“What was that?” He asks. You can practically  _ hear _ him smiling. He’s so fucking proud of himself right now, but who cares? You don’t. Your eyes are practically crossing. Your head is all floaty, your limbs have gone from aching at the joints from all the fighting and hiking you’ve done over the last few days to just… light, like you’re floating in a warm body of water. You’d do  _ anything _ he asked of you right now, and allowing yourself to trust him like this is… 

“Please!” You plead, thankful for the support of the ropes as you find yourself sagging into them. Is this some kind of magic, you wonder? Or something else, something more biological? You don’t really care right now, though, whatever it is. You don’t have the capacity to think or worry about anything else but Astarion and how fucking good he’s making you feel, how right he was about giving yourself to him like this. “Please let me cum, please!” Your words slur as you all but cry them out. 

“I’m sorry,” he teases, “I believe I had a name…”

“Astarion!” You blurt, sounding almost panicked. “Please let me cum, Astarion! Please! I c-can’t take anymore!” You grit your teeth, trying to stop yourself from going over the edge, trying your best to obey him.  _ “Ohgodsyoufeelsogood,” _ it comes out in a long, drawn out whimper.

“Good girl,” Astarion purrs, kissing at the back of your neck. His voice lowers again, and your skin erupts into a wave of heat as he finally delivers his newest order. “Cum for me.”

Your voice erupts into a series of short, almost pain-filled cries as you follow through, coming in a way that seems to involve every single muscle in your body, the flexing of which reminds you of the ropes and only serves to intensify your orgasm as you spasm around him. There’s a surprise coldness between your legs and you realise that it’s from  _ you, _ that your wetness has overwhelmed you, coating the insides of your thighs, like some kind of conductive for the absolute ecstasy you’re feeling. You feel a change, a slack in your shoulders, and it’s then that you realise they’re no longer bound. The clink of the knife being dropped haphazardly onto the table allowing you to put two and two together. “I need to--” he doesn’t finish his sentence, pulling out of you quickly and roughly turning you around before guiding your back onto the table. “I need to see--” you realise he’s not really talking to  _ you, _ that he’s saying this for him, a leaking internal monologue as he lays you down and spreads your legs.

There’s an urgency to the way he enters you this time, a hunger, a clear  _ want _ that you can even feel in the cloudy, soft haze you’re currently floating around in. The smirk that you’ve imagined to be on his face this whole time is nowhere to be seen -- instead he’s focused, close to frowning as he begins fucking you again, his eyes roaming all over your body, relishing in the sight of your flushed and exhausted face as one hand holds your leg up and aside by the flesh of your other thigh. “So beautiful,” he groans to himself, slamming into you, “so willing, so shameless, so--” 

His arrival is so quick that you wonder if he’s been longing to cum for as long as you have. He grits his teeth, stifling whatever sound is trying to wrestle its way out of his chest, the fingers on your thigh digging into your flesh so hard that you’d worry about his nails drawing blood if not for the apparent absence of your brain. He whispers something under his breath, but it’s so soft and quiet that you can’t make it out. Astarion being Astarion, you figure that if he wanted you to hear it, he would have been loud enough for you to do so. 

You both remain there for a time, trying to collect yourself somewhat -- although it’s clear that Astarion is winning on that front. You’re still a soppy, panting mess on the table by the time he’s straightened up and re-dressed himself. “Are you…” he takes a second to catch his breath. “Are you alright?” He asks, still bracing himself against the table. You nod, unsure if you could speak if you  _ wanted  _ to. After another few moments, he takes up the knife again and cuts away your harness. He carefully cuts away one knot at the end of the chain of knots that make up your leash, and with a gentle tug, the rest of it unravels, freeing you completely. “How do you feel?” He asks.

It feels like it takes all of your might, but you manage to rasp a very soft and quiet  _ “great.” _

“Come,” he says, reaching down and extending his arm to you, “let’s get you to bed before you fall asleep on a table and  _ really _ tempt me to indulge.” It takes both your hands gripping his arm, but he manages to help you sit up and eventually get off the table entirely. Your legs shake beneath you, and you probably look more like a baby deer than a Tiefling right now as Astarion leads you to a space with two bedrolls. They aren’t side by side, but they’re close enough for the space to be considered shared -- he wasn’t lying about this being your sleeping quarters after all. 

He sets you down at your bedroll, making sure you’re covered up by the blanket before leaning down and giving you a quick kiss between your horns. You watch him curiously as he returns to the table, collecting your discarded clothes, boots and all, before bringing them back to your bedroll. “Thank you, my dear,” he begins, kneeling down beside you and untangling a stray lock of hair that’s wrapped itself around one of your horns. “That was delightful. You  _ do _ spoil me.” You only manage to respond with a pleased humm, something that he finds amusing judging by the short and soft laugh you receive in return. “Don’t worry -- that incredible little brain of yours will come back momentarily.” He pauses. “I’ll wait with you until it does.”

Something comes over you. A panic. Worry. Alarm. Your eyes widen. “And then?” You ask, your throat raspy. 

Astarion studies your face for a moment. His shoulder drop and, for a moment, you swear he looks like he’s relenting on something. His hand comes to cup your face -- it’s cold, refreshing against your flushed cheek -- and you unwittingly let yourself drift into his touch. “And then you’ll rest, and I’ll stay here until I’m confident you can walk unaided. But until then,” he says, his hand moving to your shoulder, gently guiding you back and to bedroll, “you rest.” He plants yet _another_ kiss between your horns and you feel utterly _spoiled._ "Trust me."


	7. Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no smut in this one, just a gremlin with one too many feelings.
> 
> just as a note: i just want to make it clear because i've seen people arguing about party members elseware that i don't dislike wyll at all, i actually quite like him! but i tend to get the feeling that his 'flaws' would bother astarion after a while, especially if there was a kind of rivalry thing going on. with what i've written here, i don't actually think that any of this makes wyll a bad person, i actually think these would be pretty human emotions and things for him to do in this situation. buuuut i just wanted to clear that up, i'm not shitting on anyone's faves. i love all these flawed protagonists.

It takes you a little while to track him down. You’d worried that he’d gone into the woods, that you wouldn’t be able to find him so late at night, and you worried that maybe he wouldn’t come back at all. Another spat with Wyll, ending in violence this time. Wyll, finally, in the heat of the moment, had managed to land a punch to Astarion’s face, and Astarion stormed off when you’d managed to get between them, refusing to allow him to retaliate. You’re not sure if he was more angry with Wyll, or with you for denying him his revenge.

But, thankfully, Astarion has defied your expectations once again and has found his way beyond the old ruins that sit near camp, sitting himself on top of a low ledge where you can assume there was once a window. He has his back to you, looking up at the moonlight. You hesitate for a second, but it’s  _ Astarion, _ and he absolutely already knows you’re there. “If you’ve come to scold me,” he warns once you take a few steps closer, not even so much as turning to glance at you, “I’ll warn you that I have absolutely  _ no _ patience for it tonight.” 

“I’m checking on you,” you say flatly, if not a little bristled. You’d hardly expected him to welcome you with open arms, knowing him, but it’s a harsh reminder of the fact that you are, actually, mad at him. That being said, there’s no point in acting on it. It’s Astarion, after all. Suave and velvety as he is when he’s in a good mood, he’s as stubborn as a rock when things don’t go his way, and arguing won’t achieve much, if anything. Finally reaching the ledge, you climb up beside him, your legs brushing debris off with a gritty sound as you swing your legs over to dangle them off the edge the same way he is. “Gale made this for you,” you explain, handing him a small, hardened ball of cloth. Having decided that Wyll’s blow was probably a substantial one, Gale insisted on making you wait for him to dip the cloth in water and freeze it using his magic. The skin on your hand is sore from holding it for so long, but the thing seems to have barely melted whatsoever -- part of the magic, perhaps. 

He lifts it up a little to inspect it, something on his face akin to disgust, although a little milder. In fact, there’s something  _ off _ about it, like he’s forcing the expression, but you’re distracted by the bruise that’s already begun to bloom across his cheekbone. He glances between you and the compress before reluctantly raising it to his cheek. “Gale made it, and yet  _ you’ve _ brought it to me,” he remarks. “I suppose he’s fawning over the golden boy.”

Your jaw tenses. He always gets like this when his pride is wounded, immediately trying to tear down everyone around him, to drag them down to the level he feels he’s at. “No,” you correct, “he just figured you’d rather talk to me.”

“Well, he’s  _ wrong,” _ he says with a huff. “I don’t want to talk to  _ any _ of you, or else I’d be back at camp, doing so.” His upper lip curls into the bitter, semi-snarl that you dread, a sourness to his tone. “And yet, you’re still here.” He looks to you, as though he’s waiting for you to move, to get up and walk back to camp in anger. But you don’t, and it bothers him.  _ “Why _ are you still here?” He asks, although it’s far less of a question and much more of a request for you to leave.

You almost don’t say it at first, the temptation to argue back creeping up into the back of your mind. “Because I know what you’re like--”

He laughs over the top of you, a short, sarcastic cackle, designed to throw you. “You do, do you?” He almost shouts. 

You try to steele yourself, although he has knocked you a little. “Enough to know that if I leave you alone, you might walk into that forest and never come back.”

“I’m sure they’d  _ love _ that,” he retorts with a roll of his eyes. His free hand brings a bottle of wine to his lips. Of course he brought wine with him to sulk. What else would he be doing? 

“I wouldn’t.”

He eyes you as he drinks, his eyes thin and sharp as needles. “Have you ever considered that maybe they’re right?” he asks. “Maybe I  _ am _ just  _ using you, _ maybe I’ll eat you alive as soon as I’m done with you. Maybe we’ll get out of this mess, walk away unscathed, and I’ll abandon you as soon as we get to the next big city and I find someone a little closer to my station.” His voice is  _ dripping _ with venom as he says this, and while the last insinuation that you’re somehow below him  _ does _ sting, everything he says is so poisonous that you realise he’s not as angry as he is wounded. When Astarion is actually  _ angry, _ he baits, drags the worst out of his opponent and manipulates the situation until  _ they _ lash out -- it’s exactly what he did with Wyll tonight, and you have no doubt that he’ll probably do it again. But this… is different. Maybe it’s not venom you can hear. Maybe it’s hurt.

“No one says that about you.”

“Wyll said all of that and more when he had his little tantrum not even an hour ago,” he scoffs. “And don’t think I haven’t heard Gale’s...  _ opinion _ of me.”

“What?”

“Did you not think it odd that I’d take you into a cave, tie you up, and extol the virtues of your trust the very same  _ day _ that Gale had tried to convince you to not place any in me? I heard your whole little…” he takes a second, waving the bottle about in a gesture, “... _ Exchange.” _ Astarion raises the bottle to his lips again, sneering into it. “Waiting until he was injured to garner your sympathies -- and to think, I’ve been worried about Wyll the whole time when something much more insidious has been making his play… not to mention eating all our relics.” He takes another swig of wine as you put this all together, getting a clearer image of what exactly he’s upset about.

“So… you’re jealous?” 

Unable to help yourself, it comes out with half a laugh and a smile, and the look Astarion gives you would be enough to signal the end of your tryst if you hadn’t already gotten to know him as you do. “Absolutely not,” he snaps, his words a hiss. “I’d be jealous of  _ Shadowheart  _ before I’d be jealous of  _ them.” _

You frown. “Then why do you keep baiting Wyll?” You ask. 

“Because he’s  _ dumb _ and it’s  _ funny.” _

Shaking your head, you exhale. You don’t usually like to push these things if he’s not being forthcoming, and Astarion doesn’t react well to it when you try, but you  _ need _ to have this discussion, and it needs to happen right now, or things might fall apart when you return to camp. “No,” you insist. “I’ve seen you play with people. This is different.”

The sneer returns, and you know immediately that you’re in for it. “Why do you  _ care?” _ he asks. “If the Patron-Chaser’s feelings matter to you so much, maybe  _ he _ should be the one visiting your tent.”

Your jaw tenses again. He’s trying to get under your skin, trying to hurt you and create distance -- a sign that you’re hitting a nerve. “I care because I have to go back to that camp after this and face a group of people who are tired of my boyfrie--” you stop yourself quickly, trying to correct as fast as possible in the hope he doesn’t catch that. “A group of people who are tired of someone I’ve  _ insisted _ is trustworthy deliberately starting fights. I’ve tried really hard to keep everyone together, and I don’t know if…” you stop yourself, trailing off, not wanting to speak it into existence, something in his expression twitching. You know ‘a chat’ is coming for you when you go back to camp. There’s only so many times two members of a group can come to blows before one has to leave, and Astarion hasn’t exactly inspired the most trust in the others. “So what is it?” You ask. “Why can’t you just leave him alone?”

“I don’t like him,” he says plainly. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep trying to read too far into these things, you know.”

“No,” you insist once again. The more this goes on, the more you’re willing to argue it, because if you don’t at least agree to work on some kind of resolution tonight, you’re going to lose him either of his own accord or that of the rest of the group. At least if he leaves because you’ve pushed too hard, you can say you  _ tried. _ “This is different and you know it. You go out of your way to rile him up, so either there’s something more to it or you don’t  _ actually _ want to stay at all, and if that’s the case,” you’re running at the mouth, but you can’t stop yourself now, it’s more like you’re thinking aloud, “then you don’t actually care about me  _ at all, _ and I’d hardly say that we’re courting or anything, but I’d like to think you have at least a little more respect for me than--” you feel your breath catch, and you’re unable to stop yourself from doing the worst thing you have ever done in front of Astarion.

You cry.

As soon as you realise you’re not able to hold it in, you turn your head, pretending to look at something in the distance. “...Are you…?” Of course it didn’t escape his notice. Nothing ever does.

“I’m just…” it’s coming hard and fast, not just watery eyes, but actual, rolling tears. “I just really want us all to get through this,” you say. “I know  _ you _ don’t care about the others--”

“That’s not entirely true,” he interjects. “If they were drowning, I  _ might _ consider saving Shadowheart. Depending on my mood.”

This catches you off guard. He was having a tantrum just moments ago, and this joke is… if you didn’t know any better, you might mistake it for an attempt to cheer you up. “You’re always insulting each other.”

“I’m not sure if this has clicked with you, my dear, but that’s how we let people know we  _ like _ them.” He pauses, watching as you reach up and wipe your sleeve across your face. “Her and I are kindred spirits when it comes to--”

“Being an ass?”

He chuckles. “Not _my_ words, but all the same, I suppose.” There’s a pause, and you feel like you’re unable to look at him. This is awfully embarrassing, after all. “It’s not jealousy,” he finally announces. “It’s…” he pauses, looking ahead. “When he looks at you, he sees your horns and your eyes and turns you into a surrogate for his patron, that _devil_ of his, _”_ he practically spits the word. “And every time I see him do it, I have the urge to rip out his throat.” He drops his shoulders, rolling his head from side to side. You can tell he’s trying to find his composure, desperate to recover. “So I may or may not have been trying to bait him into giving me an excuse to.”

You instinctively face him, throwing care to the wind, no longer worried about him seeing you cry. Thankfully, though, he’s not looking at you. He’s drinking more wine. “How do you know?” You ask.

Swallowing his wine, he sneers. “What do you think I saw when I decided to pry into his mind?” He asks. “He thinks he’s entitled to you. Gods know  _ why _ he thinks that,” Astarion scoffs. “As if he could even compete with  _ me. _ It’s pathetic, really.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” you say, shaking your head, your voice tiny. “I mean, I know he probably has a thing for tieflings, he’s far from the first tail-chaser I’ve met,” you explain, referring to humans you frequently seem to run into who have a  _ thing _ for Tieflings, “but I don’t know about entitled. You and I are--”

“With all due respect, darling,” he cuts in, “I’ve been around for over 200 years, and if there’s anyone on this plane who understands entitlement, it’s me.” He exhales, his eyes moving to the moon, head tilting up as his voice softens. “It’s little to do with who you are or even who  _ I _ am. He’s from noble stock. It’s ingrained, in their blood. Don’t let them tell you any different.” You watch as his shoulders relax and his face softens to match his voice, his eyes relaxing. Sadness, maybe? “I saw his plans when I peeked inside that little brain of his,” he recalls, a specific, gentle tilt to his voice that you’ve only heard once or twice before. “He thinks if he puts down the foundation now, you’ll come running into his arms when we solve this tadpole thing and I abandon you.” It’s not sadness in his eyes -- it’s hurt. “He’s quite convinced I’m going to just bugger off, really.” 

“Will you?” he glances at you and it makes you flinch a little, like you’re embarrassed you’ve been caught watching him. “I mean, you’ve said you won’t, but…”

“Don’t tell me Gale got to you.”

“No,” you shake your head, “it’s been on my mind a lot longer than that. We’ve had this discussion before.”

“Indeed, we have.” There’s a hint of annoyance cropping up in his voice. “And I believe I’ve also told you I’ve no plans to leave you behind, if I can help it.”

“Why, though?” you ask. 

Astarion raised an eyebrow, his expression as though you’ve absolutely confused him. “What do you mean?”

You shift a little, looking back out to the forest. “I just… have a hard time understanding why you’re so willing to…” trailing off and unsure how to express it, you shrug. “I just thought you’d have bigger plans.”

“I do,” he agrees, “and they involve you.” He catches your gaze again, this time locking eyes with you, smirking. “I don’t know  _ why _ this isn’t clearly apparent to you yet, but I’ve become quite fond of you.” You open your mouth to question him, but he speaks over you. “And  _ you _ don’t get a say in it.” 

“Why--”

“Again with the  _ ‘why.’  _ Your life might be a little simpler if you stopped questioning everything, you know.” His face softens a little. “But, to answer your question… you’re quite pleasing to the eye, of course. I’ve always found Tieflings  _ interesting, _ but there’s something  _ about _ you, something unique. I’m not sure if it’s the--” he pauses, lifting the compress off his cheek and waving above his head, referring to your horns, “you know. The ways yours frame the rest of your head. Maybe it’s your particular shade, I can’t put my finger on it.”

“And that’s it?”

“Of course not,” he scoffs, “I’d be no better than Wyll. No, no, you’re…” he exhales and stares back up at the moon. “200 years and I’ve never had anyone trust me the way you do… or forgive me the way you always seem to.” The volume of his voice dips. “I haven’t been allowed to be myself -- my true self, free will and all -- for two centuries. After that long, it becomes a scary thought. You forget, after a while.” Astarion lowers the compress, revealing the severity of the bruise, which has already darkened. “But when I’m with you, I feel… safe to try and remember.” Leaving the compress in his lap, you flinch at the feel of his hand against yours. It doesn’t really pick it up, or even hold it, but it’s there, sitting over it, making contact. Astarion has seen every inch of you and committed unspeakable acts with you, but this… feels sacred. “Or to try and figure it out, anyway.” Astarion smirks to himself. “Your lack of defined moral compass certainly helps.”

You’re not sure what to say, and this is such a rare admission, such an important moment for the both of you, that you’re scared to  _ try  _ and fill the silence, your eyes focusing down onto the grass below, almost  _ embarrassed _ to look.

“Do you remember the night when you let me bite you for the first time?” He asks, his voice the softest you think that you’ve ever heard it. “Do you remember what I told you? About us taking on the world together?” There’s a pause, a delicacy to his voice. “I didn’t say that without reason.” You finally feel brave enough to divert your gaze back to him, and it’s then that you catch him staring at you, the gentle, half-smile on his face that’s always a treat. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you right now, even with the bruised cheek. It’s… stirring something. Making your breath catch -- but not in the usual way that preludes sex. No, this is different. Hard to describe. You want to kiss him.  _ Desperately. _ For a moment, it looks like he might kiss  _ you. _

But then, in true Astarion fashion, he breaks his gaze and turns to reach for his bottle of wine. “We could have half of Waterdeep eating out of our hands between us.” He pauses, body stopping with his speech. “...Why so nervous?” he asks, turning back to you and offering you his wine, smirk returning to his face.

“I’m not.” You do your best to lie to him, taking a swig of the wine, an eyebrow raised as you watch him look you over.

“Darling,” he chuckles to himself, removing the hand from yours and leaning over, “I can  _ hear _ your heartbeat, the blood pumping through your veins…” He takes your chin in his hand, his eyes softening, his face taking that expression that almost seems to pity you. “It’s meant to be a killer instinct… but it also means I know exactly when to do  _ this.” _

He kisses you, and it’s a little different to most of the other times he’s kissed you. There’s usually a hunger behind it, an urgency -- and there’s nothing wrong with that, usually it’s followed by sex, after all -- but this is  _ different. _ It’s slow, lingering, far less like he’s trying desperately to fill a need and more like he’s actually  _ enjoying _ it, getting lost in the moment with you. His fingers glide back from your jaw to the back of your neck, just resting over the back of your hairline, and you expect him to pull you closer to escalate… but he doesn’t. The pace remains the same. Slow. Delicate. Savouring. 

The kiss runs its course, his forehead resting against yours instead of pulling away, the hand still in place. “Of all the depraved things I  _ have _ done and  _ would _ like to do to you, making you cry isn’t one of them,” he admits, his voice low again, this moment just for you. He exhales, finally separating himself from you, his eyes still closed, shoulders dropping in a show of defeat. “So, if I  _ must _ in order to spare myself from your tears,” Astarion’s voice rises in volume again, the drama returning to it, “then I  _ suppose _ I can  _ try _ to be a little more… amicable.” You smile at this, a pleasant and deeply unexpected surprise, but he quickly raises his hand. “Although I can’t make any promises if I catch him ogling you like you’re the world’s most coveted bed-warmer again.”

Unable to hold it in, you laugh. “I don’t think you can really stop someone from--”

“I absolutely could if you’d just let me rip out that remaining eye of his,” he cuts in, smirking at the sight of your unimpressed expression. “Come now, don’t look at me like that. Plenty of the blind get along just  _ fine. _ Besides, he’s a Warlock,” Astarion adds. “I’m sure there’s some kind of spell he could use.”

Knowing he means no real harm (yet, anyway,) you exhale in a sort of half-laugh and shake your head, shifting your weight, preparing to move. “I’ll be sure to ask him when I get back to camp,” you remark. “I’ll go first, talk to the others, so give it maybe…” you tilt your head from side to side, “fifteen minutes? Hopefully--”

As you brace your hands against the stone beneath you, you feel his hand at your forearm. “Stay,” he says quickly, picking up on the confusion on your face immediately. “I… this is… I...” you watch his jaw tense, his eyes glance away for a second, like he’s guilty or embarrassed. Maybe both. “I… I _ like  _ this.” He speaks slowly as he says this, a miniscule little pause between each word that makes you wonder if he’s straining to admit this, or if he’s realising it as he speaks. He inhales as though he has more to add, but then hesitates. Whatever he was going to add, he’s decided to keep it to himself for now. 

He’s right to do so, really, because this request is more than sufficient, it’s… it seems to settle somewhere in your chest, and you don’t think you could bring yourself to leave even if you wanted to. 

You absolutely  _ don’t _ want to leave, though. Now that Astarion’s shared  _ that _ little tidbit with you, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. You settle back down, scooting over as he extends his arm out towards you, signaling for you to close the distance between you and, although it’s a little to your surprise, nestle up against him. Astarion places his arm around you and you carefully set your head down on his shoulder -- taking extra mind to not knock his head with your horns. It takes some adjusting, but eventually you settle, and the two of you sit there and enjoy the view. He asks you lots of questions about you, about your past, about things you’ve seen and the people you’ve painted. 

He deftly avoids discussing himself -- maybe that’s the point of this. A distraction from himself. Maybe this is  _ his _ version of losing himself in  _ you. _


End file.
